The Animated Hunger Games
by moredreamslesslife
Summary: When Panem rose from the ashes of what was once Toontown, it was decreed by President Frollo that each year, the 12 Districts would offer up one young man and women to fight to the death in the Hunger Games. This is the year of the 27th Games. There's 24 of them, but only one will come out - alive. Contains Non-Disney characters, but mostly Disney. T for language and some gore.
1. The Reaping: D1-D6

**I do not own any characters, Disney or Non-Disney, that I use in this fic, or anything from their films that I happen to mention. They all belong to their respective owners. I do not own** _ **The Hunger Games**_ **or anything related to it.** _ **The Hunger Games**_ **belongs to Suzanne Collins. In short form, I own nothing.**

 **Cover image was made with Azalea Dolls' Heroine Creator. I've seen people use that game for cover images before, but if my cover image is in any way violating anyone's copyright, I'm sorry, it's not on purpose, please tell me and I will take it down.**

 **Now, after those necessary disclaimers, time for my way-too-long Author's Note! (I know people usually skip Author's Notes, but I'm writing this anyway.) Soooo….I've been kind of obsessed with** _ **The Hunger Games**_ **recently, and while skim-reading the web one day, I found the Brant Steele Hunger Games Simulator. It's pretty hilarious if you put the right characters into it, and my Disney-nerd brain came up with the idea of a Disney-style Hunger Games (with some non-Disney characters, of course, since I'm an animation junkie). I ran the simulator multiple times, it was hilarious, but I kept wanting to control the thing instead of leaving the fates of everyone up to the random nonsense of a computer. So lo and behold, this was born.**

 **And yes, I know that Disney/Hunger Games crossovers have been done one-million times before, but screw it, it's time I put in my pennies worth!**

 **Also, for anyone following** _ **Return to the Smithsonian**_ **(my NatM story), as it says in the summery, I've put it on hiatus as I don't really know where I'm going with it and I've lost some my inspiration to continue with it. It's not over, I'll probably return to it someday, but until I get inspiration to write more on it, this is what I'm going to working on it. I know, I hate authors who leave stories hanging too, but I promise you, I will return to it.**

 **Anyway, this beginning is way too long, so without further ado,** _ **Happy Hunger Games, Everyone!**_

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 **The Reaping: D1 – D6**

 **District 1**

 **(Jasmine P.O.V.)**

The day has come. The day that everyone in Panem anticipates, whether out of fear or excitement.

It is decision day. It is judgement day.

It is the day of the reaping.

"Now Jasmine," my father says sternly, as he brushes out my hair. Everyone has to look their best for the reaping. "Promise me that you will not volunteer."

"But father…"

"I know it's tempting, Jasmine, but I just can't risk losing you."

I sigh as my father places my hairbrush back on my dresser and begins to pull my hair back into my signature thick tri-ponytail.

"You won't lose me, father. I'm ready for this. I know I am."

"You're not ready, Jasmine. Not until you're at least eighteen."

"Eighteen is my last year," I huff, reaching for my earring box. "What if, when I'm eighteen, I try to volunteer but some other girl gets their first? Then I'd never get a chance."

"Well, I do think that that would be for the best, Jasmine. You know what I want for you."

Yes. I do know what he wants for me. As soon as I turn sixteen, he wants to marry me off to some rich Victor so he can shower us with jewels and money - as if we don't already have enough of our own, as one of the richest families in the wealthy District 1. But that's not what I want. I want my own riches, my own glory, not someone else's. I want a chance to prove myself, to prove to all the girls my age that call me weak that I'm not who they think I am.

To prove to everyone that I'm more than just a prize to be won.

"Promise me, Jasmine." His hands are on my shoulders now, his voice and eyes begging. "Promise me, please, that you will not volunteer."

I sigh deeply.

"Fine. I promise."

My fingers aren't crossed behind my back exactly, but they are crossed underneath the ledge of my dresser, so it still counts. More or less.

* * *

Despite my confidence, however, I can't seem to keep my legs from shaking as I'm herded into the roped-off area that holds the children of District 1. It's separated by age, oldest at the front, youngest at the back, which places me in around about the middle of the pack. It's ridiculously claustrophobic, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that I'll only have to stick it out for a little while. After all, I'll be up on that stage soon; the huge, white stage that is currently occupied by one podium, two reaping balls and three seats.

One of the seats contains Charlotte LaBouff, our Capitol escort, looking as freakish as always, every inch of her sparkling with glitter that has been surgically implanted into her skin. Her pastel-pink dress is wider than my house, and her peroxide-blonde hair piled high enough to be used as a hiding place for smuggled diamonds. Her facial features are frighteningly doll-like - porcelain skin, miniscule nose, permanently pouting lips and eyes so exaggerated that they seem to popping out of her face, which isn't at all helped by the fact that her eyelashes are approximately as long as my little finger, and shimmering pink. She looks scary, though to be fair, she's not as bad as some of the other wealthy Capitolites that can be spotted on television during the Games' Opening Ceremonies. No wings surgically attached to her back, no unicorn horn poking out of her forehead. By comparison, her look is pretty tame. She might have even been considered attractive if her waist wasn't the same size as her neck.

The other two seats are filled by District 1's Mayor, and Aladdin Ababwa, District 1's most recent Victor, who won the Hunger Games two years ago when he was sixteen. I have to admit, he's extremely eye-catching, his jet-black hair shining like silk in the morning sunshine, his dark eyes soft and warm and I could swear that just for a moment, I catch a hint of sadness in them, but I must be imagining it. After all, Aladdin is a Victor, the highest honour anyone in District 1 could achieve.

 _That seat is mine._ I tell myself. _Next year, that'll be me up there_.

"Welcome, everyone!" Charlotte is standing up now and making her way towards the podium set up for her. A hush falls over the crowd as she begins her speech in her odd, piping Capitol accent, "It's that time again! The time of glory, the time of honour, the time to choose our tributes! As you all know, a name will be drawn and then we ask for volunteers – and I'm sure you're all itching to get yourselves up here!" She makes her way over to the bowl of girls' names. "Ladies first!"

She reaches her hand into the bowl. Stirs the slips around for an agonizingly long time. I can hear my heart thudding. My stomach flips. Am I really going to do this?

Yes. Yes I am. I have to.

Finally, Charlotte selects a slip, pulling it out of the bowl with a dramatic flourish. She unrolls it, reads a name…but I don't hear it. All I hear is my own voice ringing in my ears.

"I volunteer!"

Everyone is staring at me. Damn. Maybe I was louder than I thought. Charlotte grins at me with a terrifying Cheshire-cat smile.

"Well, this one's certainly eager!" She chirps, giving an extremely grating high-pitched giggle. "I wasn't even finished reading!"

She stretches her hand out, beckoning me with one long, perfectly-manicured finger.

"Come on up then, dear!"

I begin to make my way up to the stage. The crowd parts like the Red Sea, and as I mount the steps and shake Charlotte's hand, I feel as though all of Panem have their eyes locked on me. Which, of course, they do.

"And what is your name?"

I swallow hard.

"Jasmine," I try to keep my voice strong and clear but it comes out rather shaky. Damn it, damn it, _damn it_. "Jasmine Badroulbadour."

Charlotte claps her hands in delight.

"Lovely! Well District 1, let's have a round of applause for Jasmine, our beautiful female tribute!"

There's the standard roar of applause. I catch a few blazing looks from other girls my age, but they don't matter now. I'm looking right over their heads, at my father standing in the crowd. His eyes hold sadness, fear, but most of all, betrayal.

 _I'm sorry, father._ I mouth. _I had to_.

But he just shakes his head and looks away, and my heart breaks. Hopefully, I can make this right in the Justice Building, where the tributes have an hour of last goodbyes before we board the train the Capitol.

I'm so preoccupied with my father that I don't even hear Charlotte call the name of the male tribute. The traditional scuffle of volunteers is just background noise. I don't even notice that one of them has mounted the stage to stand next to me until he taps me on the shoulder. Then, I swing around, only to come nose-to-nose with a face I know way, _way_ too well.

Kuzco Manco.

Are you kidding me?

Of all the boys in District 1, I am sharing my big moment with – and, more importantly, being thrown into a death match with – _Kuzco Malina_ , the biggest diva this side of Panem and, quite possibly, the world.

Fabulous. Just fabulous. As Kuzco would say.

The bastard.

Once again, I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts that I jump when Kuzco clears his throat. When I give him a blank look, he shakes his outstretched arm at me, but all I can do is stare at it dumbly.

"What?"

"The candyfloss lady wants us to shake hands." He hisses, and I guess that must jolt my mind back into working.

"Oh! Sorry!"

I'm flustered, quickly thrusting my arm out. He rolls his eyes and smirks, but shakes my hand. Damn, talk about limp-wristed.

Charlotte beams at us both, her smile stretched to fill up almost her entire face, the sunlight glinting off of her crazily white teeth.

"Congratulations!" When we drop each other's hands, she grabs both of them and pulls them into the air with hers. The crows applauds again. Kuzco is loving it, milking the attention for it's worth. Me, I'm not so great at crowd-pleasing. The most I can do is attempt a confident smile. Hopefully, the audience either don't notice or don't mind. They're more focused on Kuzco than me anyway.

Then Charlotte finishes her speech:

"District 1, you're tributes: Jasmine Badroulbadour and Kuzco Manco!"

* * *

 **District 2**

 **(Merida P.O.V.)**

 _I did it._

I watch as Charlotte makes her way over to the bowl of boys names, and all I can think is, _I finally did it_.

I volunteered and now I'm here, a tribute, days away from the Hunger Games.

I'm not sure how I feel about that, honestly.

Charlotte dips her hand into the boys' bowl, taking her sweet time choosing one before she reads out a name, and while it's not really clear in her Capitol accent, it's certainly loud.

"Li Shang!"

A huge, brutish boy, muscles rippling, mounts the stage to stand next to me. I can't help but feel intimidated in his presence, but thankfully, I know it won't be him I'll be sharing the arena with. I think District 2 might be one of the only districts in Panem where being reaped means you're _safe_.

"And now, any volunteers?"

Of course there is.

There's always for fight to volunteer, especially amongst the boys. They're all shouting their names, yelling that _they volunteer, dammit!_ But there's no real choosing. It all comes down to whoever shoves everyone else out of the way and gets up the steps first.

This time, it's a boy I don't recognize.

Shang steps down, and my new district partner takes his place beside me. He's a tall, slightly-built Chinese boy, his dark hair long but tied up. Charlotte shakes his hand warmly.

"And may we have your name, young man?"

"Fa Ping." The boy says gruffly. I don't recognize that name, either, but Charlotte either does or she isn't bothered because she grins wider than any human being should ever be able to grin.

"Fantastic!" She claps her hands delightedly, and the audience applauds too. Then she grabs our hands and raises them in the air and suddenly I'm stuck. Should I look pleased? Determined? Fierce? I settle with a strange kind of mix of the three, and I hope I don't look as awkward as I feel. "District 2, you're courageous tributes: Merida DunBroch and Fa Ping!"

* * *

 **District 3**

 **(Jim Hawkins P.O.V)**

"James Hawkins, I want to see you out of that bed and in your clothes in five seconds, or I will drag you down here myself!"

I groan and roll over, trying to ignore my mum demanding my presence. Perhaps if I go back to sleep I'll wake up and this day will all have been a dream.

"Jim!"

My duvet suddenly pulls a vanishing act. Okay, new plan. Maybe if I just ignore her, she'll go away.

"Jim!"

I don't answer, content with lying on my stomach with my face smushed into my pillow. It's not the most comfortable sleeping position, but it'll do for now.

"Jim, I have just about had it with you!" A pile of clothes land on top of me, my only warning before my mum grabs my shoulders and manually hauls me out of bed, and even though my eyes are still half-closed, I can clearly see the look in hers. Frustrated and tired and sad all at once.

Mostly sad, though.

"I know you don't want to go, I don't want to go either, I wish I could close my eyes and make this whole thing disappear, but I can't, no one can."

"The Capitol can."

My mum sighs.

"Well, we aren't the Capitol, Jim. And it's the law to attend the reaping, Jim. If we don't go we'll be imprisoned on sight, maybe even shot. Do you want that, Jim?"

"Does it matter? I'm as good as dead already, as far as the law's concerned."

I know I'm right there. I have such a string of misdemeanors behind me that the Capitol would applaud seeing my head severed on the battlefield. Trespassing, theft. Impounded vehicles. In the eyes of the law, I'm hopeless already, so why bother to please them when they've already given up?

My mum sits herself down on the chair beside my bed, sighing again.

"Jim, I'm relying on the Capitol's approval to keep the inn going. If the Capitol wanted to, they could tear it down with a snap of President Frollo's fingers, and where would that leave us? Starving on the streets? Please, Jim, if you won't do this for yourself, do it for me. Please."

Then it's my turn to sigh. Both of us are doing a lot of sighing today.

"Fine."

"Thank you, sweetheart," She kisses my forehead, then stands to leave. "Get ready quick, please."

Once she's gone, I groan and pull myself out of bed, picking up the black suit I accidently knocked onto the floor. I glare at it. Reaping clothes, though it looks like a funeral suit – and I suppose it is, in a way, even if the deceased is yet to be decided.

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I watch with bated breath as our escort, Charlotte LaBouff, reaches into the girls' bowl, the spiked talons that she calls fingernails tossing the little slips like a salad before she finally selects one, and clears her throat dramatically.

"Ethel Leiko Tomago!"

Who? I recognize the surname, but…

I crane my neck to see the chosen female tribute climbing the steps to the stage, and I recognize her immediately. She's one of the eighteen year olds, a high-flying college student who everyone just calls Gogo. I always wondered what her first name was. I never would have guesses Ethel, though. She doesn't look like an Ethel, really. Her dark hair is cut short and choppy and there's a streak of purple running through the front of it. She snaps her bubble-gum loudly as she shakes Charlotte's hand.

"Such a shame," I hear someone in the crowd tut behind me. "She had such a promising career ahead of her."

I don't have time to ponder that, though, because then Charlotte's reaching into the boy's bowl and stirring the slips around and pulling out a name and reading it out and…

"James Hawkins!"

I hear my mum gasp, letting out a strangled sob, but nothing really registers until I feel a Peacekeeper shove me roughly forward.

"Go on then, kid, get up there!" He snarls.

Then it clicks.

My name. She called my name. I'm going into the Hunger Games.

The reaping is rigged, I swear.

* * *

 **District 4**

 **(Eric P.O.V.)**

"Eric, what if it's me?" Ariel whispers into my hair as we share our last hug before we're separated in the reaping. I press a reassuring kiss to her temple.

"It won't be."

"What if it's one of my sisters?" She pulls away from me and I see that her face is streaked with tears.

"It _won't_ be! "I assure her, gently tucking her flaming, red locks behind her right ear. "None of you have ever taken out a tesserae…"

"Attina has."

"That was years ago, though. She's no longer eligible now, and neither are Alana or Adella. It's only you, Aquata, Arista and Andrina left and it's Aquata's last year. It's highly unlikely it'll be one of you."

"But what if it _is_?"

"Well, if it is, then I'm sure some other girl will volunteer."

"Mmm…" Ariel sounds thoughtful, but I'm telling the truth. District 4 may not be the wealthiest Career District, so we may not have as many volunteers as, say, District 1, but there's still always someone.

I wrap my arm around Ariel and begin to walk us to the square. She hangs onto my arm, almost for dear life, and I'd laugh if the Hunger Games weren't right around the corner. Ariel and her family are mer-folk, rare beings which only live in District 4. The only reason they're still eligible for the Games is because they can transform their tails into legs if given the right spell. They do this every year for the reaping, but I don't think they ever get used to it - you can always spot the mer-folk in the crowd because they're always unsteady on their feet, wobbling this way and that like they've had too much to drink. I kiss the top of Ariel's head as we reach the roped-off area. We have to split here, me at the front with the other eighteen-year-olds, her slightly further back with the sixteen-year-olds.

"You okay now?"

She sniffs and wiped her eyes, but nods.

"I think so." Then she presses her lips to mine in a quick, chaste kiss, before pulling away and turning to leave. "See you later!"

"Always."

Right?

That's our parting message every year. It's held up so far.

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"Arista Triton!"

Oh God.

There's gasps as Arista, Ariel's seventeen-year-old older sister, slowly makes her way up to the stage, her thick, blonde hair tied up in a ponytail that bounces as she walks, her blue eyes scared and filling up with tears. Charlotte smiles gently – or rather, with as much of an aura of gentleness that any Capitol citizen can muster – as she climbs up to the stage.

"Alright then, any volunteers?"

There's quite a few, Ariel's other sister Andrina included, but Ariel is the loudest. The most distinctive too, with that gorgeous, scarlet hair. Charlotte's eyes lock on her immediately.

"Come on up then, dear!" She beckons and Ariel follows. I see her visibly swallow hard as Charlotte smiles at her with that terrifying, toothy grin. "And your name is?"

"A-Ariel," Ariel stammers, and my heart breaks for her. "Ariel Triton."

Charlotte claps her hands like an exited five year old.

"Oh, I bet that was your sister wasn't it?"

Ariel nods.

"I knew it! Don't want her stealing the glory, do we?" She doesn't give Ariel a chance to answer. "Fantastic! Well, let's have a big round of applause for Ariel Triton, shall we ladies and gentleman?"

The crowd claps and cheers. I clap politely, but not a sound passes my lips. My blood is boiling. Ariel doesn't deserve this. She won't last a day in the arena – mer-folk never seem to do all that well, but Ariel's never picked up a weapon in her life – and yet the entire district is cheering for her demise. It makes me feel honestly sick.

"And now for the boys!" Charlotte trills, dipping her hand into the bowl of boy's names. "Nemo Anemone!"

I hear someone – it's a male voice, so Nemo's father, I guess? – gasp as a small twelve-year-old limps up to the stage. He looks as though he has an injured leg and my heart goes out to him, but I try to keep myself focused on Ariel. She's scanning the crowd, her eyes wide with fear, even though I think she's trying to look unfazed.

"Any volunteers?"

And suddenly, it's as if my logical brain has been switched off. Tunnel vision seems to set in. My only thought is that I need to protect Ariel.

"Me!" My voice sounds hollow and booming, but I'm sure it's just me. I shout louder, scared I won't be heard over the other tussling male volunteers. "Me! I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

"No, Eric…" I hear Ariel whisper.

But it's too late now. I was definitely heard. Charlotte is staring right at me.

"Ladies and gentleman, we have our male tribute! Come on up then, dear!"

As I climb the stairs, I see Ariel give me a sort of sideways glance. Her eyes are disbelieving, and it's only then that I realize what I've done. I've made a horrible mistake. I can't protect her, especially now that I'm in the Games too. Twenty-four go in, only one comes out. _One_.

I've done something I can't take back, and I know it.

But if this is the end of us, then I'll just have to make sure it's her that gets out alive.

"Shake hands, then dears!"

I turn and meet Ariel's eyes. I can tell we're both thinking the same thing: shake hands? And have that be our last act of love in our hometown? Not likely.

I dart forwards and swiftly press my lips to hers. I feel her hand snake up to the back of my head and tangle in my hair, and I wrap my arms around her slender waist, deepening the kiss.

Charlotte squeals and the crowd claps and cheers, but to me, it's just white noise. Which is good. I don't want to be distracted by anything right now.

We need to make this special.

We need to make our last kiss special.

* * *

 **District 5**

 **(Elsa P.O.V.)**

As we near the square, I stop in my tracks and gently cup Anna's chin with my hand. She shivers.

"Elsa, your hands are cold!"

"Sorry." I take my hand away and open my arms instead. "Warm hug?"

She grins and launches herself into my arms. It's not really a warm hug, since every inch of me cold (a side effect of ice powers) but if Anna minds, she doesn't show it. And the warm fabric of my blue dress and rich-purple cape softens the icy chill that my skin gives off a little.

"Love you, Anna." I murmur, planting a kiss on top of her head.

"Love you too, Elsa."

We pull away then and I give her strawberry-blonde hair a quick ruffle.

"Now remember: don't get reaped!" I say, mock sternly. She giggles and bats my hand away. She knows I'm joking. I say that every year.

"See you later, then!" She calls as she skips away to join the other eighteen-year-olds at the front of the square.

"See you later." I reply softly.

But as I walk away to join parents and other siblings too old for the Games in the crowd, I can't help wondering if Anna really does mind. Does she mind my ice powers? Is she ever jealous? Does she wish I was an ordinary like her? Or does she know I wish I was ordinary, too?

See, District 5 is called the Power District for a reason, and that reason is that most everyone here has a super power of some sort. God-like strength, the ability to shape-shift. Invisibility. The girl that won the Hunger Games last year has healing hair. It's all pretty amazing, really.

But then you have your ordinaries. Which, in short, are people without super powers, but still live in District 5 because they're relatives do.

There are very few ordinaries in 5, to the point where it's considered a genetic disorder. It's usually hereditary, too – if your parents were ordinaries, you probably will be, too. But that isn't a good thing, because ordinaries are looked down upon, treated almost as second-class citizens. Which is why there was uproar when me and Anna's sorcerer father and ordinary mother were wed and brought us into the world – one sister with powers, one without. It used to be as good as unheard of.

So me and Anna, we're basically mythical.

Of course, I always treat my sister as an equal. Because she is, really. Who cares if she has powers, or not? She's my sister and I love her.

But sometimes, even though it's kind of selfish, I sometimes wish are roles had been switched.

Because uncontrollable ice powers are nothing to be proud of.

"Alright, let's start with the girls, shall we?"

I'm jolted out of my thoughts by Charlotte LaBouff annoyingly high voice as she reaches into the bowl of girl's names and pulls out one slip.

My heart goes in my mouth, my stomach tightens.

 _It won't be Anna,_ I try to assure myself in head, but it doesn't really work. If it wasn't for the gloves, the ground around me would be covered in ice. _It's okay. It won't be her. It won't be her…_

"Anna Mauricedottir!"

Oh my God.

I see Anna detach herself from the others, make her way up those white steps…

No.

No, no, no.

Please no.

"No!"

The loudness of my voice stuns even me. Everyone is staring at me. Panic rises in my throat, making feel as though it's closing up. All of a sudden, it's as if my voice box doesn't work anymore.

"I-I volunteer as tribute…" I manage to get out

Charlotte looks taken aback.

"Oh my! Umm…"

I catch an indignant look from one of the younger boys.

"She can't volunteer, she's too old!"

That statement hits me like a block of ice.

He's right.

I can't volunteer.

I can't save my sister.

"Oh, Elsa…."

"I-sorry, dear…" Charlotte has clearly been thrown off. She's giving me what I think must be an attempt at a sympathetic look, but instead, it looks infuriatingly mocking. "I…peacekeepers…?"

"Right here." Says a gruff voice behind me. I don't even have time to turn around before someone grabs my shoulders and is steering me out of the square. I try to struggle, but the peacekeeper has a grip like a vice.

"Please…my sister…" But the words die in my throat.

"Nothing you can do, I'm afraid."

And the last thing I hear before I'm being shoved through the streets back in the direction of my house is Anna franticly shouting for me, and Miss LaBouff calling the name "Hercules Olympus."

* * *

 **District 6**

 **(Tiana P.O.V.)**

"And our female tribute is…"

Then Charlotte stops. Her eyes go wide.

I know why.

It's me.

Believe it or not, I used to be close friends with Charlotte, when we were about five. Her mother was an escort and she used to bring Charlotte along to reapings. We formed a friendship, considered ourselves "best friends", but then, when she turned sixteen, Charlotte started training to become an escort herself. We saw each other less and less until eventually, she disappeared altogether.

But it's only really been two years. I kind of miss her.

Maybe she misses me, too, because she seems to be struggling to get her words out.

"The female tribute…i-is…"

Her eyes are filling with tears. I should probably put her out of her misery.

"It's okay," The loudness of my voice in the silent square takes me by surprise somewhat. "I know it's me."

The crowd begins to chatter nervously at this turn of events, but Charlotte just beckons me up to the stage. I mount the stairs and shake her outstretched hand. She's sweating.

"I'm sorry." She whispers, but I just shake my head.

"It's okay, Lottie."

She smiles a little at her old nickname.

"Good luck, Tia."

Then she drops my hand and makes her way over to the boy's bowl, reaching inside it and stirring the slips around a bit before selecting one.

"William Smee!"

Oh, no. Not him.

I know Smee. He's eighteen, the same age as me. I see him around school, and he's one of the kindest boys I think I've ever met. And probably ever will meet, I think.

Not him. Please. Someone volunteer for him, please. Someone. Anyone.

"No!"

It seems like I've got my wish, as another eighteen-year-old boy with long, black hair in a ponytail and wearing a red frock coat suddenly darts forward and shoves Smee behind him.

"I volunteer!"

 _Oh, damn it…_

Okay, anyone but you.

I know this boy. I know him too well. As he mounts the stage, I see the sharp, silver hook that replaces his left hand glint dangerously in the sunlight. He's a close friend of Smee's, I know, though God only knows why they have anything to do with each other. This boy is the epitome of an evil bastard.

"Name please?"

"Jas. Hook." The boy says gruffly. Charlotte narrows her eyes.

"Real name, please?"

The boy snarls.

"James Hookbridge."

Charlotte claps her hands together.

"Lovely!" She glances at me. Surely she won't make us shake hands? James would probably kill me right now, get it over with. He's got both the means and the motive. And the mind-set, too.

Charlotte's walking up to the edge of the stage. No, she's not going to make us.

"So, District 6, I give you your tributes," She glances back at me only for a split second, but in that second, I swear the sadness in her eyes is palpable. "Tiana Grenouille and James Hookbridge!"

I am so dead.

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 **My grammar is awful. I should really consider getting a Beta reader…**

 **Hope you enjoyed this all the same, though! The next chapter will be more reapings, but then it's on the train rides and opening ceremonies and training and eventually…the Games!**

 **Also, the idea of Hook's last name actually being Hookbridge is not an idea I came up with, it was in the book** _ **Alias Hook**_ **by Lisa Jensen. Awesome book; if you like redemption for villains you should definitely read it. But yeah, I don't own that idea.**

 **It is a fanfiction crime to read but not review!**


	2. The Reaping: D7-D12

**Hi again everyone! I apologise one million times for updating so late! If I didn't have school and homework, I's update this thing close to religiously, but unfortunately, I do have those things.** **As well as the fact that FanFiction had a freak out lately where no reviews were showing up, so I thought I'd better wait until that was fixed to post a new chapter. And** _ **then**_ **my computer broke down on me so I had to take it in to be fixed, which meant I couldn't use it for a week. The world is conspiring against me, I swear. I really do apologise for the length of time this chapter took to get posted, thank you to everyone who reviewed and faved and followed, and for everyone reading this chapter, thank you so much for waiting on my slow arse!**

 **I am going to try to keep to a schedule, though, from now on. Chapters will probably be posted every Saturday, but if I miss a day, don't panic, it'll probably just be a one-or-two day delay or something.**

 **I will be answering any reviews I get from here on out:**

 **ImaginationWriterStories – Thanks! Glad you're enjoying this! Yes, I really wish people would review more. It's nice to get a little feedback, just to know people are enjoying your work.**

 **All Hail King Scar – Glad you're enjoying this! Unfortunately, the reapings/tributes are already pre-planned (sorry!) but don't worry, I WILL be including Lion King characters in later chapters, because The Lion King is one of my favourite films. I'm happy you're finding this story interesting, though!**

 **AxieJade – I'm glad!**

 **AkwardChit – Thank you so much! I am trying to write in a similar style to the original Hunger Games, so I guess it payed off. And yes, I am trying to work as many different Disney films in as I can (whilst still making sure they fit into their Districts, of course) because I think it will be interesting to see so many different personalities play off of one another. Hope you enjoy chapter 2!**

 **Mogyoro (Guest): Thanks! Here's more. Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy it anyway!**

 **Anonymous Guest: Yes, some of the district partners are a bit odd (don't know how I came about putting Hook and Tiana together, for example) but like you said, the reaping is random.**

 **Now, on with the chapter! (Note: this chapter uses characters from** _ **The Lorax**_ **and from** _ **How To Train Your Dragon**_ **. I did mention in the summery that I'd be using some Non-Disney characters here, too, but just a reminder in case anyone doesn't know the characters I add.)**

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 **The Reaping: D7-D12**

 **District 7 - Lumber**

 **(Jane Porter P.O.V.)**

"Our female tribute is…Jane Porter!"

The first thing I do is scream.

Then cry.

Then try to hide it, even though it's fruitless, as I mount the stage, feeling sick, and shake Charlotte LaBouff's outstretched, pink-gloved hand. After all, no one's going to bet on a tribute whose freaking out just at their name. I roughly scrub away my tears and take some deep breaths, attempting to calm myself as Charlotte makes her way over to the boys bowl. Maybe she'll reap one of those huge, brutish boys I see lugging around felled trees. One that could give me an ounce of protection.

"And our male tribute is…Once-ler Truffula!"

Or not.

A tall, scrawny eighteen-year-old, his mop of black hair adorned with a grey fedora, weaves his way through the crowd. I know him, if very vaguely, and there's no chance of anyone volunteering for him. He has two brothers, but I think they're too old now – not that they'd volunteer anyway, even if they were young enough. Having had the misfortune of meeting that family, they're probably pleased to finally see him go. Especially the mother.

He climbs the stage steps to stand next to me and gives Charlotte a firm handshake. I try to stifle a sigh of frustration. He doesn't look like much of a fighter at all, and the happy-go-lucky vibe I'm getting from him is almost irritating given the circumstances. My only hope now is that he's handy with an axe. Which he very well might be, given that I'm fairly sure his family are in the logging business, or something similar.

My hope is slim if I'm honest, but at least it's something to cling to as I await my impending death.

* * *

 **District 8 - Textiles**

 **(Aurora P.O.V.)**

"It's beautiful!" I cry, spinning around in delight as I hold the pink-and-blue, off-the-shoulder gown against my body. My three aunts are master seamstresses and always go out of their way to make me something gorgeous for the reaping. They're creations are always magnificent, and I actually find it rather a shame that their lovely designs are wasted on such a horrific event.

My eldest aunt, Flora, clasps her hands together.

"It looks positively lovely on you, dear!"

Merryweather gives a light titter.

"She hasn't even put it on yet."

"Well then maybe it's time she did!" Flora trills, giving me a less-then-subtle push in the direction of my bedroom "Go on dear, get ready, let's see you all dressed up!"

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My aunts were right, the dress does look stunning on me, but standing in the tight, confined space in the roped off area of the dusty square doesn't exactly make me feel like a princess. When I eye Charlotte LaBouff's wide, bubblegum-pink monstrosity, however, I secretly decide that I much prefer my tasteful, slim-skirted gown.

I watch nervously as Charlotte glides over to the bowl of girls' names and dips her hands in, her long, pale fingers swirling around in the soup of paper slips before she finally decides on one and unfolds it like a scroll.

"And our female tribute is…" She pauses dramatically. "Aurora Rose!"

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

I walk forward, though the parting crowd, on autopilot, as if I'm in some sort of trance. Barley feeling the soft silk of Charlotte's glove as I shake her hand. Barley registering the noise of the noise of the crows. I only really come back to reality when Charlotte gasps theatrically, touching the white sleeve of my dress and I almost jerk away, because while Charlotte is nice and all – one of the nicest people to ever come out of the Capitol, in my opinion – if her television reputation is anything to go by, she tends to get a little hyper, and I'd rather her not tear the delicate material.

"Such a beautiful dress!" She squeals, a little too high pitched for my liking. "Very simple, I suppose, but simplicity has it's charms," She giggles in that awful Capitol way. "Wherever did you get it?"

"My aunts made it." I reply. My voice sounds hollow and far too loud. "They're amazing, aren't they?"

"They must be!" Charlotte makes a spinning motion with one finger. Twirl for me. This is making me feel like I'm already being interviewed, and I don't like it, but I decide to take this as an opportunity – after all, Capitol audiences will be watching this live right now, and they always like a tiny bit of excitement at a reaping. Perhaps if I can get them to like me right from the get-go, I won't have too difficult a job once I actually get to the city – and do a quick 360, showcasing every angle of my gown. The crowd makes murmuring noises that aren't obviously positive or negative, but I know the Capitol will be eating it up.

"Lovely!" Charlotte claps her hands together delightedly. I lift my skirt elegantly and give a small curtsy as Charlotte moves across the stage to the boys' bowl. "Now then, on to the boys."

She takes equally as long choosing a boy's name as she did with the girls' names, but eventually she plucks one slip of paper from this year's batch and reads it out.

"Henry Charming!"

Who?

A few girls scream as a tall dark-haired boy in a gold suit emerges from the pack of eighteen-year-olds at the front.

Ah.

I know him now that I can see his face. He's a boy from school, the teen heartthrob of District 8. Everyone has always called him Charming, but I didn't realize that that was his real name, or that his first name was Henry.

As he shakes Charlotte's hand, my strategizing begins. After Charlotte's reaction to my dress and the small advantage I just might have given myself by showing off, I've decided not to count myself out of the Games just yet. Surely, with Charming's looks and my apparent talent for crowd-pleasing, we could pull in at least a few sponsors? And sponsors are what give you life in the Games, no matter what arena you're thrown into, with their expensive gifts of food and weapons. Even if you have no fighting skills at all, sponsor gifts alone will get you at least far enough to be a serious contender.

Suddenly, I notice that Charming is holding his hand out towards me. I shake it firmly, unable to help wondering if his train of thought is even the slightest bit like mine at this point. What's his strategy?

Or do I only have myself to rely on this time?

* * *

 **District 9 - Grain**

 **(Belle P.O.V.)**

I breathe deeply as Papa and I near the square, trying to push down the bundle of dread that boils in my stomach, but it's no use. I can't help but feel nervous, knowing that in the year between the last reaping, I've taken out three tesserae. And the year before that, I took out one. Four tesserae. And I'm seventeen. So all in all, my name is in that reaping ball ten times, more times than any other girl I know.

 _Not that you know very many people_ , I point out to myself. And I really don't. Because, Papa excluded, I can't help but prefer the company of storybooks – magical collections of paper that transport me to far-off lands of happily-ever-afters and once-upon-a-times, away from the endless, dull grain fields of District 9 that I've always felt so out of place in, and the gloomy overhanging shadow of the annual Hunger Games.

The square is in full view now. I need to leave, to go and stand with the other children my age in the roped off area in front of the stage.

Papa squeezes my hand tight.

"Good luck, Belle. I'll see you later."

"See you later, Papa."

I hug him before tucking my book into the wicker basket on my arm and making my way over to the mob of seventeen-year-olds, who turn to each other and whisper.

Sometimes, I wonder if being reaped for the Games might be worth it just to get out of this place.

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"Belle French!"

"No! Belle, no!"

As I take a step forward towards to the stage, for my father rushes forward and makes a grab for my arm, only to be shoved back by white-suited peacekeepers. Charlotte beckons me with her long, pointy index finger.

This is it. I've got to do this. I've got to be brave – got to prove to everyone that I'm more than just that antisocial bookworm they spot in the street once a month.

And anyway – this might be my last chance to get out of District 9.

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"And our male tribute is…"

"I volunteer!"

A hush falls over the crows. Volunteers are rare here in 9. Not unheard of, but rare.

I crane my neck to see a gangly thirteen-year-old pushing his way through the crowd, haphazardly swinging around a stick that I don't think he actually realizes he's holding. As he climbs the stage I notice that he's practically exploding with the pride of being up here, about to go into the Games.

What the heck? I mean, like I already said, It will be nice to get out of District 9, to see what the heart of the Capitol really looks like, but this a death match, not a school trip!

"Wonderful! But I'm afraid we didn't quite get your name, young man!" Charlotte giggles, as the boy feverishly pumps her arm up and down.

His face explodes in an enormous grin.

"Taran Prydain!"

* * *

 **District 10 - Livestock**

 **(Hiccup P.O.V.)**

"Toothless, down!" I laugh as my dragon licks at me, obviously trying to keep me at home, away from the horror of the annual reaping. "Down! Toothless, I mean it, down!"

Toothless finally pulls away from me and I groan as I realize my clothes are covered with dragon saliva.

"Toothless! Dad'll kill me, you know this doesn't was out!"

Tooth shrinks away, looking apologetic, and I almost immediately soften.

"Sorry, bud," I offer, scratching the top of his head. He purrs appreciatively and rolls onto his back. I laugh and scratch his belly gently. "But the reaping isn't called off just because one boy and his dragon don't want to go."

"Quite right, son."

I jump and swing around at my Dad's sudden voice behind me. He stands tall and imposing, and is smiling grimly.

"Hi Dad." I say meekly "I was just…saying goodbye to Toothless."

"Well, hurry up. It's time to go."

"Okay Dad." Toothless lowers his head sadly and I sigh. "I know, bud, but you know you can't come. I'll see you after the reaping, okay?"

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"Our female tribute is…Esmeralda Guybertaut!"

A tall, pretty girl – about seventeen, I think, so a year younger than me – with mocha skin, bouncy black hair and piercing emerald eyes detaches herself from the crowd.

I recognise her immediately.

She's that girl I've always felt sorry for; she lost her family very young and has been living on the streets ever since. She's the girl that dances in the square for coins. The girl who keeps goats in a rented-out barn at the edge of town. The girl that everyone wants but can't have.

I can't help feeling sorry for her now – very few people know her by name, and now she's being sent off to die.

Esmeralda mounts the stage and shakes Charlotte's hand politely, but when she turns back to face the audience her eyes are blazing. That stare makes me so uncomfortable that I have to avert my eyes, focusing instead on the horrifically-dressed Charlotte LaBouff making her way over to the bowl of eligible boy's names.

My stomach turns a bit as she stirs the little white slips around. Even though it's unlikely that I'll be reaped, this part of the reaping always makes me nervous.

"And the male tribute that will be joining the beautiful Esmeralda is…"

She pauses for dramatic effect.

"Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III!"

Really? With the middle name and everything?

"No! Hiccup!"

My I turn to see my Dad shoving people out the way roughly, trying to reach me through the tightly-packed crowd, but I hold my hand up and he halts, looking stricken.

"It's okay, Dad. I'll come back. I promise."

Then I turn back around. Because I know that if I look at my Dad any longer it's likely I'll lose my nerve.

I begin to mount the stage. I'm pretty sure he doesn't follow me.

Charlotte's handshake is loose and a little too fast and I don't particularly like the feel of her silk gloves, but I try not to focus on that. Instead, I attempt to focus my mind on strategizing. Planning for these Games – after all, in a just a few weeks I'm going to be thrown into a death match. I can't go in without a plan.

I'm usually good at formulating plans, but now – right when I need a plan the most – nothing comes to mind, because my brain is already too full of a million other thoughts all swirling around.

 _Say goodbye to Toothless for me, Dad. Okay? I don't want him to worry._

 _Tell him I'll be back soon._

* * *

 **District 11 – Agriculture**

 **(Pocahontas P.O.V.)**

Almost as soon as I wake up, I realize what day it is.

And as soon as I realize what day it is, a feeling of dread floods my stomach.

It's reaping day.

With a groan, I pull myself out of bed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

I get dressed in the knee-length, tan dress and soft moccasins that have been set out for me, in honour of this "special day". Then I fix my mother's blue stone necklace around my neck and sit down to brush my hair. Its length means that just this simple act takes a good long while, and as I'm completing it, there's a knock on my door.

"My child? Are you awake?"

"Yes, Father!" I call. "Come in."

The old door creaks and my father steps into my bedroom. His frame fills the entire doorway. For some reason, that makes me smile.

My father returns that smile and sits down next to me on my bed.

"It's always lovely to see you smiling," He laughs lightly, but I detect a hint of sadness in it. "If only if it weren't for these despicable Games."

I nod, finishing with my hair and setting the brush down.

"I hate the Games, Father." I say vehemently. My Father sighs and wraps his strong arms around my shoulders, pulling me close.

"I know, darling. Everyone does. Everyone in every non-Career District hates the Games."

"The Capitol love it." I reply, and it comes out rather bitterer than I'd intended it to. My Father shakes his head.

"Don't let yourself get angry, Pocahontas. All it does is let them win."

"But I am angry!" I suddenly explode, "I'm angry at the Capitol for setting up these horrible Games! I'm angry that they force us to kill one another for entertainment! I'm _angry_ that they send children of _twelve_ off to their deaths on live television! Is that what they do all day every day, those Capitol people? Sit around and wait for the next train of tributes to roll in and die for their twisted amusement?" I'm spitting my words out now, but honestly, I've gotten myself so riled up that it's difficult for me to care. "What can't we all just live in peace? What does the Capitol have against that? What did we ever do to them?!" Hot, angry tears are pricking my eyes, but I scrub them away roughly. My Father hugs me even closer to him and sighs again.

"Stop, Pocahontas. You know the reason the reason for the Hunger Games. Everyone does."

"Yes, but the rebellion was years ago! Why do we have to suffer for their crimes? There's no need for it, no need for this senseless violence! Why does it happen? Why does it happen every year?"

"Because the Capitol are cruel, Pocahontas. The Capitol are cruel people who cannot see the errors of their ways until it is too late. But that is their loss, not ours. Not yours."

"But…"

"Pocahontas, are you ready to go?"

I sigh in frustration and hang my head.

"Yes."

"Then come on. We must leave before we are late."

He stands up and offers his arm to me. I take it and reluctantly stand up to leave.

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The walk to the square is surprisingly pleasant.

Dawn is only just breaking – we always hold reapings supremely early here in District 11, so that we can get back to harvesting the fields as quickly as possible – and the sunrise is beautiful, a glowing, golden ember peeking out over the tops of the far-off apple trees. A lingering mist swirls around in the air, and it's refreshingly cool.

I can't help laughing as the small racoon that lives near my house winds himself around my ankles and our resident hummingbird, a gorgeous, emerald-green creature, settles on my shoulder.

"Hello Meeko," I chuckle, stroking the racoon's black-and-white coat. "And you too, Flit." I gently caress the hummingbird's chest with the back of my finger. He chirps appreciatively and puffs his feathers out.

Other people – mostly those in the nicer part of District 11 that work in shops and live in picturesque little towns, with their blonde hair and blue eyes. The merchant class, we call them, whereas my tribe and neighbouring tribes live in the Seam, with our dark hair and copper skin - will look at me as though I'm crazy for naming these technically-wild creatures. But the truth is that I didn't name them. They told me their names.

Well, not exactly. It's more like I looked at them and knew, instinctively, what their names were.

Saying this to anyone outside of the Seam, though, is viable to get me labelled as insane. Most of the merchant class already see the tribes in the Seam as slightly backwards with our customs, and while I don't, in any way, hold that against them, there's a fine line between them tolerating what they consider eccentricity and them having us put away. I may have opinions, but I also know when to keep my mouth shut.

More or less.

I watch as my Father stoops down to pick up Meeko, cradling him in his strong arms.

"Lovely creatures," He murmurs as he runs his fingers through the racoon's soft fur. Meeko chirrups happily in appreciation.

We continue to walk in silence, each cuddling our respective animals, and I'm beginning to think that the rest of our journey is going to be uneventful, until something – or rather, someone – launches itself onto my back, drawing out of me an uncharacteristic shriek of shock and almost knocking me flying.

"Pocahontas!" The someone squeals excitedly and I can't help but think that she must have done some sort of gymnastics stunt to get in front of me so quickly.

"Nakoma!"

Laughter bubbles inside of me as I envelope my childhood best friend in a hug. Nakoma's family work the corn fields, just as me and my family do, and we've been inseparable for as long as I can remember. So once we turned twelve, it became tradition for us to meet up on the way to the reaping; get the day off to a somewhat-nicer start before it dissolves into the misery of the Games.

When we pull away from each other, I spot Nakoma's tittering Mother making her way over to my Father, who is shaking his head good-naturedly.

"Hello again…" She chuckles.

They continue to chat, but Nakoma and I tune them out in favour of our own convocation.

"I can't believe it's reaping day _again_!" Nakoma sighs, and I nod my head mutely. She's right. It barley feels like a week since the last Hunger Games – the last innocent massacre of innocent children. "I hope it's not me." She murmurs, and my stomach drops.

This time I shake my head.

"It won't be you." I say, more to comfort myself than her, because I know I wouldn't be able to stand if she got thrown into that arena.

We're silent for a few minutes then, thinking, before Nakoma speaks again.

"How many times is your name in the pickings?" She asks. I wince.

"Six," It makes me wince because if you calculate that with the laws of the reaping in mind, it means that I've only ever had to take out one tesserae in my life, whereas I know Nakoma has taken out more than her fair share. "What about you?"

"Twenty-seven."

I bite my lip. Nakoma hangs her head slightly, sadness, fear, crossing her face. I reach for her hand and give it a squeeze.

"It won't be you."

She smiles weakly.

"Maybe not." One eyebrow quirks "Although maybe I wouldn't mind so much if I was reaped with one of those hunky guys…"

I know she's trying to lighten the mood a little, but I can't help rolling my eyes.

"You mean Kocoum?"

She nods dreamily, then sees my expression.

"What? He has good survival skills, he can fight, he'd be great protection…"

"You really think he's protect you? You don't think he'd stab you in the back the minute it was turned so he could win?"

Now it's Nakoma's turn to roll her eyes.

"He's nobler than that. Why do you hate him so much?"

"I don't _hate_ him! I don't _hate_ anyone…"

"Apart from the Capitol?"

I glare at her and she looks sheepish.

"Sorry."

"I don't _hate_ him, I just don't understand what you see in him, that's all. I don't feel like I could ever trust him properly, he's just too serious all the time. You can't joke with him. He has all the personality of a coffee table. If I ever date or get married, I'd like to be able to hold an intelligent conversation with my significant other for longer than five minutes at a time. "

"Alright, Miss High-and-Mighty!" Nakoma gives me a light, playful shove. "I never said I wanted to _marry_ him…"

"You were thinking it, though."

Nakoma shrugs.

"He has nice abs, is all I'm saying."

"Yeah, he has a nice smile too." My voice is dripping with sarcasm.

Nakoma sighs in a sort of long-suffering way.

"You can't deny that he has nice abs, though."

"I didn't deny that. I just stated that, and this is just my personal opinion, I think dating him would be more or less akin to dating a rock."

"A _hot_ rock!"

I choose not to award that comment with an answer.

"Pocahontas."

We've reached the square. It's time.

"Goodbye Father." I reach up to hug him tightly. He hugs me back just as hard and I feel him smile into my hair.

"Be brave and stay strong, Pocahontas." He whispers in my ear.

I nod.

"I'll see you after the reaping."

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"As always, ladies first!" The blindingly pink and perky Charlotte LaBouff trills, in that grating Capitol accent of hers.

She lowers one creamy hand into the bowl of girls' names.

"And our female tribute is…"

I feel Nakoma's fingers lock around mine. I squeeze them tightly, just like I did on the walk here.

"It won't be you." I repeat, though my eyes are fixed on the stage and I'm sure I'm sweating profusely.

"Nakoma!"

No.

No, no, no.

Nakoma's grip on my hand slowly loosens. She's slipping away, heading towards the stage. I'm losing her.

"Nakoma, no…" I whisper. She turns and gives me a look that utterly slices through me. The pain seems to be radiating off of her, soaking her like a wave.

Then she turns her back again. Begins to walk again.

"Nakoma, no!"

Pretty much the entire District turns to stare at me. Nakoma most of all.

"Pocahontas, don't you dare…" She hisses warningly, as if she's knows what I'm going to do. Which she very likely does.

"I have to. I am not letting you set foot in that arena." I hiss back. Then, louder: "I volunteer as tribute!"

"Pocahontas, no!"

Nakoma makes a grab for me but I dart out of her way, my feet pounding on the cold, white, marble steps as I run up to the stage.

"Pocahontas!" Nakoma is screaming my name. I turn back around just in time to see her mother materialize from out of the crowd to pull her away, sobbing hysterically. I can almost feel my heart breaking. Hopefully, she won't be angry with me. Hopefully, she'll visit me in the Justice Building and I can explain why I had to this.

Behind me, Charlotte is clapping her hands delightedly.

"Wonderful! A volunteer!" She's grinning wildly, and it makes my blood boil. How can she find this amusing? How someone be so sick as to derive enjoyment from sending teenagers off to die?" Now, let me guess: Was that your sister, by any chance?"

I shake my head.

"Nakoma's my best friend." I correct her hoarsely. It's an honest mistake I suppose, though. Pretty much everyone in the Seam resembles each other closely.

Charlotte shakes her head, giving me what I think is supposed to be a sympathetic look.

"Oh dear. Well, hopefully you'll be finding another friend in your District partner. Let's move on to the boys!"

As she crosses the stage to the bowl of boys' names, the reality of my situation seems to punch me in the stomach. A ball of sudden terror flips over inside of me, threatening to make me retch.

District Partner.

To have District Partner, you need to be in the Hunger Games.

I'm going into the Hunger Games.

What was I thinking? I can't fight. I don't fight. I'm a pacifist, my entire family are pacifists. To kill another human, to injure another person, would be to go against everything I have ever believed.

What have I done?

 _You've saved Nakoma,_ I remind myself. _That's what you've done. You've saved your best friend._

So who will be my partner in death?

"John Smith!"

Oh no.

Not him.

I see him detach himself from the crowd of eighteen-year-olds right at the front, his soft, blond hair waving in the wind, his periwinkle-blue eyes bright with shock. John is a merchant boy; his family own a shop, though I can't remember what that shop sells exactly. I've seen him at school, even talked to him a few times, and he's a good man. A little full of himself, perhaps, but a good man all the same. It hurts so much to know that the Games are going to ruin him.

The Games ruin everyone.

It sounds cruel, but as I watch John Smith shake Charlotte LaBouff's bubblegum-pink glove, I can't help thinking that I hope he doesn't win this year's Hunger Games.

Honestly, I'm not entirely sure _I_ want to win the Hunger Games, either.

After all, no decent person ever does.

And even if they do, the Capitol soon get their claws into them.

I swear to myself, then and there, that I will not let that happen to me. I will _not_ become the Capitol's puppet, even if I do, by some miracle, manage to win.

I will _not_ let those savages control me.

* * *

 **District 12 – Mining**

 **(Snow White P.O.V.)**

Please not me.

Please, please not me.

"Snow White!"

 _No_ …

My vision swirls and the world goes black.

 **(Pinocchio P.O.V.)**

"Pinocchio Geppetto!"

I try to act brave. Braver than the fourteen-year-old girl they just called that passed out, anyway. But it's difficult. Impossible.

I'm going into the death match. I'll likely be the youngest there.

I highly doubt I'll be coming back.

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 **So that's all the tributes! Get your betting slips out!**

 **I hope I got your favourites in their somewhere, but if I didn't, just tell me and I'll try to include them in future chapters.**

 **Also, I know that in the books/films it's District 12 that have the Seam/Merchant social dynamic, not District 11, but I thought that it fitted better with Disney's version of the Pocahontas story (the Native American people live in the Seam while the white settlers are the merchants) than with either the Snow White or Pinocchio stories, so I just transferred it to Pocahontas and John's District, which here is District 11 because corn = agriculture (or that was my thought process, anyway.) So I didn't get confused, I just decided to change it.**

 **As I've already said, it is a fanfiction crime to read but not review!**

 **Please review and tell me what you thought of this chapter!**

 **Who are you betting on?**


	3. Mentors & Train Rides

**Hello again! I'm back! And I updated on time this time, yay!** **J**

 **You've probably guessed from the title of this chapter, this chapter is going to be about the train ride to the Capitol where the can tributes interact with their partner properly, and I'll be introducing some characters as mentors. Then the next chapter will be the Opening Ceremonies. Hope you enjoy!**

 **Review answers first, though:**

 **All Hail King Scar: Interesting to see who you're putting money on, especially since I know roughly what's going to happen... :) *Evil laugh* And no, Scar isn't going to be president, since I already made Frollo from** ** _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_** **president, but I'm thinking about making Scar a Gamemaker, since he's one of the most manipulative of the villains.**

 **Mogyoro (Guest): Thanks! I totally agree with you, it is pretty cool and interesting, but also pretty sad when your favourite characters end up dying. Let the Games begin indeed! :)**

 **AkwardChit: Yeah, Snow White doesn't really have a lot going for her in a death match, does she? You never know, though. Like you said, there can always be surprises… :)**

 **ImaginationWriterStories: I can actually kinda see Pinocchio doing that, haha!** **Not sure it's possible in this universe, though! And interesting betting picks! Merida, Hiccup and John do seem to be the favourites the win at the moment. It's going to be interesting to see how they all hold up, both in the pre-Games pageants (Opening Ceremonies, interviews, ect) and in the actual Games.**

 **Anonymous Guest: No, Hercules is not immortal in this. He has super God-like strength because he comes from District 5, the "Power" (which I have changed to mean super powers in this, even though I know it means electricity in the original) District, but he can die/be killed, or it wouldn't exactly be a fair fight, would it? :)**

 **Now on with the chapter!**

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 **Five Mentors and a Train Ride**

 **(Merida, D2 P.O.V.)**

"So…I haven't seen you around much?"

It's awkward - you can definitely tell that small talk is not my strong point – but it's all I have to offer in way of breaking the strained silence that's been hanging in the air between me and Ping ever since we got on this train.

I really, really wish our mentors would just hurry up and introduce themselves already so I wouldn't have to do this.

Ping jumps about a meter in the air at my voice.

"What?!"

His gruff voice goes as high as a girl's in his shock. I can't help but chuckle. He glares.

"What?" He says again, lower this time, though I think it's directed more at my laughter than what he missed me saying.

"I said, I haven't seen you around much. Not before the reaping, anyway. Where've ya been?"

My District Partner relaxes a little, though he still seems somewhat on edge.

"Oh, well I…I uh…" He falters and I frown. Maybe he's just shy? "I uh…I don't go out much! Yeah, that's it. I don't go out much because I'm, uh…training so much." He flexes the lacklustre muscles in his scrawny arms. "Gotta get ripped! Get in shape, you know what I mean?"

I furrow my brow.

"Where do you train?" I press, flicking away a ginger curl that's fallen into my face with an annoyed huff. "I've never seen you in the gym."

Okay, granted, I don't go to the gym. I prefer to practise my archery in the woods, because the woods – well, just the outside, really, but the woods most of all – are what feel like home to me. They're where I feel alive. But you can always see teenagers walking to and from the various gyms and training stations in District 2, and Ping is one person that I have never, ever seen before in my life.

"That's because I, uh…I train at home. Yeah. My family are really, uh, enthusiastic about the Games so we, uh…we have our own training centre. Yeah."

"You have a private gym?" I ask incredulously. Even _I_ don't have a private gym and my parents are…well, let's just say that the fact that they've been anticipating my victory literally since I was born is barely scratching the surface.

"Yeah. My family are…pretty well off?"

"They must be."

That unbearable silence envelopes us again. The unofficial end of this conversation has been reached.

"Well, look at you two. You're more talkative than two parrots in a Jabberjay's nest. Bodes well for future alliances."

Both of us jump then, and swing around to find a tall, blonde women staring us down, pretty face set in a hard line.

I recognize her immediately.

Tamora Jean Calhoun, Victor of the 15th Hunger Games – the longest Hunger Games to date and one of the Capitol's favourites. Calhoun's arena was designed like a violent first-person-shooter video game – one of the best arenas, in my opinion - and while she was skilled with many weapons, what ultimately secured her victory was some sort of high-tech gun that put the shot tribute into a week-long coma before their heart finally gave up, which lead to the Games running for a ridiculously long time The Capitol loved it. Calhoun is definitely a Capitol darling, but I can only assume that that also makes her one of the best mentors.

Right now, she seems to be inspecting both me and Ping like we're slabs of meat, clearly taking in our builds, our looks, searching for anything that could possibly tip her off that we're particularly good fighters.

 _This is who you want to impress_ , my brain tells me.

I immediately straighten up and draw an arrow from the quiver on my back, stringing it before sending it flying over Calhoun's shoulder, lodging in the seam between two panels of wood. Ping stares at me in shock. I just smirk at him and draw another arrow, and I'm about to string it when Calhoun holds up her hand.

"Enough!"

I lower my arm. Calhoun nods approvingly.

"You have good discipline, then. And you seem like a fighter, which is more than I could have said about last year's pair."

"So are you my mentor?" I ask hopefully. But Calhoun shakes her head.

"Sorry, no. I was sent for your little friend here," She gives Ping a distasteful look. Clearly, she sees more promise in me than him. "It's a shame, though. You look like you have a shot at winning. If I was allowed to bet, my money would be on you, and I've only known you for five minutes."

She's lying. For Ping's sake, I should think. Calhoun has known me – well, not personally, but she's known _about_ me - for years.

"So who is my mentor, then?" I venture, even though the aching pit in my stomach already knows the answer. On cue, Calhoun grimaces and makes a spinning motion with her finger. Turn around.

I follow her instructions, however reluctantly, and come face-to-face with the one-legged, bearded, Scottish man I'd been expecting all along.

"Hello, Merida." He says gruffly.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out.

"Hello, Dad."

 **(Hercules, D5 P.O.V.)**

 _Wow_ …

I can't help but widen my eyes as the girl who I presume is Anna's mentor slinks into our train car, emerging from the shadows in a highly dramatic fashion.

Rapunzel Gothel. The most recent Victor of the Hunger Games.

Her iconic 70-foot, magical, golden hair is tied in a thick braid, entwined with flowers, so that it just grazes her ankles rather than dragging on the floor behind her, and the heavy, black cast-iron frying pan that swings from the belt at the waist of her purple dress is more than just a cooking utensil; it's her weapon of choice.

As deadly as she is beautiful. That's how her team sold her, I remember.

"Well then," She says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking us both up and down approvingly. I can't help wishing she was my mentor. My actual mentor, Bob Parr, has the same powers as me, but Rapunzel is the most recent winner so I assume she has the most up-to-date knowledge of the Games. "This is what we have to work with? Not bad."

 **(Hook, D6 P.O.V.)**

"Boy, will you please stop flying…"

"Why? Making you jealous, Hook?"

I glare at the infuriatingly cocky little pipsqueak currently zipping around the train car, already hating him with every inch of my being.

I cannot believe I got stuck with _Peter Pan_ , of all people, as my mentor.

My District Partner (who don't particularly care all that much about, but I digress), Tiana, was given the classically-beautiful Vidia as her mentor, so was hoping I'd get someone similar. But no.

 _Peter. Bloody. Pan._

I have hated Peter Pan ever since I was old enough to be aware of his sorry existence. He won one of the very early Hunger Games, I think the fourth or fifth one maybe, when he was only thirteen. The Capitol loved it – their youngest Victor ever – so to reward him, they gave him a potion that preserved his youth for eternity, so he still looks and acts like a thirteen-year-old boy, even after all these years. And the reason why he flies is because, during his Games, in which the arena was a pirate ship, he found a different potion in a treasure chest that granted him the power of flight. It helped him win, but the effects never wore off, so now he flies permanently.

Since then, he became something of a Capitol celebrity, appearing on all their talk shows and look-backs at previous Games.

They call him The Boy Who Never Grew Up.

If he wasn't an arrogant little prick before his big victory (which he bloody well was, in my opinion), then he certainly became one afterwards.

Honestly, I'm actually kind of looking forward to the arena now.

After all, if it means getting away from this blasted eternal boy, how bad can it really be?

 **(Ariel, D4 P.O.V.)**

"Eric, how could you do this?!" I scream, as soon as our mentors have left the room. "What were you thinking?! Now we're _both_ going to die!"

"I'm sorry!" Eric holds up his hands in defence as I hurl a velvet cushion at his head. It bounces off of him and drops to the floor, useless. "I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking at all! I just wanted to protect you…"

"By forcing me to watch you die?!"

"I know! I'm sorry, I didn't think of it like that! I…"

But I've stopped listening. The tears are coming, pouring down my face like a waterfall that I can do nothing to stop.

"Eric…"

"Ariel…" I feel his arms wrap around me, pulling me to the soft sofa where I curl up in his arms, burying my face in his chest and sobbing.

"Ariel, I'm sorry," He murmurs in my ear, gently stroking my hair. "I didn't mean for things to turn out like this. I didn't think what I did trough. I just couldn't bear to see you thrown into this Gladiator match."

"Only one of us can come out Eric," I sniffle, trying to wipe my eyes on his shirt, only for more tears to come. "What are we going to do?"

"Don't worry. I'll keep you safe, I promise."

"And what about you?"

"Don't worry," He repeats, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "I'll think of something…"

( **Snow White, D12 P.O.V.)**

I ready my pencil and paper and take a deep breath as I sit myself down on one of the plush, midnight-blue train seats, trying to steel my nerve, but it's just no use. I am terrified.

My escort – District 12 has never, not once in twenty-seven years, had a Victor, so new tributes must make do with only an escort – has instructed me and the tiny twelve-year-old Pinocchio, who I suppose must be my District Partner, to watch a recap of all of the other reapings in every District across Panem, and to take note of any particularly powerful-looking or cunning-seeming tributes that catch our eye, so that we know who to watch out for in the arena.

I am actually trying not to look at Pinocchio, even though he's sitting directly to my right, because it hurts my heart knowing that in just a few days, he is going to be flung into a fight to the death. As am I. I would rather not think about it.

But as the screen in front of me flickers to life and the ominous Capitol anthem fills my ears, I realize that I am going to have to face up to reality sooner or later.

The first tribute who I really focus on is the boy from District 1, because the way he is dressed, with all of his gold jewellery, makes him look as though he could easily be from the Capitol himself. I notice that the commentators agree with me. His District Partner looks fierce, but he will definitely have hordes of sponsors, and sponsors are just as important as fighting skills in the Games. I mark down both tributes from 1 as definite threats.

Next is the girl from 2 – _Merida_ , I will need to remember her name – with her head of wild, flaming curls, who mounts the stage bow and arrows in hand. My stomach drops at the sight of her. She would kill me in seconds, I just know it. She looks like she was born wearing the Victor's Crown and is just on her way to reclaim it. And while the boy from her District seems a little on the scrawny side, he is still from District 2; District 2's tributes are always the most dangerous.

Neither tribute from 3 comes off as anything special, though they do give off a sort of aura of rebelliousness, with the girl's leather jacket and the boy's defiant scowl. Nor do the tributes from District 4, but they are rather attractive and will likely pull in some sponsors from that alone – plus, they are Career Tributes, so they will almost certainly have training backgrounds.

The next tribute to really worry me is the boy from District 5, with his hulking form and rippling muscles. He could snap my neck in a flash. And his partner is a smaller girl, with sleek, strawberry-blonde braids and a wealthy-looking older sister who could certainly pitch in with some sponsor money. The commentators are incredibly excited about her, after she attempts to volunteer despite being too old. Again, the girl with the braids may not be a threat physically, but if she plays her cards right, she'll be rolling in sponsors.

The District 6 girl, Tiana doesn't look too frightening, but the male tribute, with the fitting last name of Hookbridge, is a whole other story. He lunges forward to volunteer, and when he mounts the stage I can see the sunlight glinting dangerously off of the polished-silver, metal hook that replaces his right hand. Dread gnaws at my stomach again. Another killer.

District 7 passes by. Neither tribute particularly jumps out at me.

Aurora Rose, the pretty, blonde girl from District 8, has her dress complimented by Charlotte and she plays that to her advantage, spinning around and curtseying to the crowd. I am almost certain that she has the Capitol audience in the palm of her hand already, before the Games have even begun. Her partner, however, while attractive, is rather forgettable.

District 9 is naturally next. The brunette girl tribute makes almost no impact on me, but I decide that I had better at least keep an eye on the thirteen-year-old, Taran, that volunteers.

Actually, I decide to keep my eye on all of the volunteers in general. After all, who would willingly have themselves thrown into a death match unless they are ready to kill?

The two dark-haired, green-eyed tributes from District 10 strike me as possible underdogs. They are attractive enough to have sponsors lining up, but it's the determination in their piercing glares to truly gets to me. The camera zooms in on their faces and they seem to lock eyes with the audience, staring them down as the commentators compliment them in the background.

I take down their names – Hiccup and Esmeralda – but I may not have needed to in order to remember them, as those stares seem to linger even after they have both faded from the screen.

I am not entirely sure what to make of the Native American girl that volunteers for her best friend in District 11. She doesn't look like a killer, but she certainly looks able to fight, and those hailing from District 11, especially those that live in the Seam, always seem to know how to live off the land. I add her name – Pocahontas - to my list. Her partner too, while a little forgettable, certainly seems capable. Perhaps District 11 could prevail this year?

Then they're showing District 12. I hear my name called. I see myself pass out on the spot. The commentators roar with laughter. I suppose that they must call Pinocchio's name too, but I am not able to hear it. My head is already buried in my hands, the tears already beginning to flow. No one in their right mind will sponsor me after that performance, and I certainly don't have the fighting skills to make up for it.

I am as good as dead right now

 **(Belle, D9 P.O.V.)**

 _"_ _It's alright Belle you'll be okay. You're intelligent. You'll find a way to get home, I know you will. You can win these Games and come home to me. You can."_

My Father's words in the Justice Building bounce around the inside of my skull. At first I actually believed them. At first I almost actually had hope that I might just be able to win.

But now I'm not so sure.

A viewing of the recap of the reapings in the other Districts revealed tributes that could kill me with a flick of their wrists. Like the redheaded archer from 2. Or the monstrous, muscly boy from 5. Or the boy with the hook hand from 6.

Then there's the ones who will almost certainly get sponsors. Like the flamboyant male tribute from 1. The pretty, blonde girl from 8. The pair from 10, with their striking green eyes and fierce glares.

How am I supposed to compete with them?

I'm not anything special. I don't have the arresting physical features or the crowd-pleasing, outgoing personality to get sponsors smitten with me. I don't have the strength or ruthlessness to pull in those looking for a winner. I don't really have the survival skills to get by completely alone. Intelligence will only get you so far, and I'm rather lacking in other departments.

That is what a mentor is for, I suppose. The clean and polish a tribute for the public eye, to train them up for both close-combat and long-range battles. But mentors can only work with what they're given.

Do I really have what it takes to win the Games? I'm starting to seriously doubt myself.

 **(Jasmine, D1 P.O.V.)**

The first thing I do when I'm shown my living compartment after recapping the reapings is jump in the shower. It's like my shower at home, only with more buttons, more choices of soaps and shampoos and oils.

 _If this is what the shower on the Tribute Train is like_ I think _How luxurious are the showers at the Training Centre?_

When I'm done with my shower, I remember that my escort was insistent about me getting changed for dinner, so I rifle through the many of drawers of clothing until I manage to put together an outfit I like; a simple blue top that bares my stomach, tight jeans and shiny, black boots with heels. Then I sit down at the dressing table set up in one corner of the room and begin brushing out my hair, which I've decided to leave it down today. Then I clip in my large, gold earrings – my District Token and a gift from my mother before she died– and fix a blue pendant necklace from another drawer around my neck. Dinner – or dinner in District 1, anyway – is normally a rather formal affair, so I figure that I should at least make an effort to look nice.

 _Really? Is that the reason? Or are you just dressing yourself up for Aladdin?_

What? No!

 _Really? You sure? Because you weren't exactly focused on Kuzco earlier, were you?_

Stop! Aladdin is attractive, I admit, but it's not like a have a crush on him. He's my mentor, that's ridiculous!

 _Why? He's only two years older than you._

And my mentor. Mentors and tributes just don't happen. Victors and other Victors, maybe, but _not_ mentors and tributes.

 _Well in that case, it's just a case of waiting, isn't it? Once you win the Games, you won't be Tribute and Mentor anymore, you'll be Victor and Victor._

And that has to do with right now how exactly?

 _You're getting him interested in advance._

No I'm…Wait. No. What am I doing? I'm having a mental argument with myself. I need to stop. Clearly the stress of the Games is getting to me.

 _Really? Stress? That's what you're going with? You don't think you're just…preoccupied or anything?_

No. I'm not. It's just stress. Really. And hunger. Dinner will make me feel better. And hopefully get rid of this irritating inner-me pervading my thoughts.

But just as I'm about to open the door…

 _You sure you don't want to check your hair one last time? I heard Aladdin likes girls with smooth, shiny locks…_

With a frustrated groan, I – against my better judgement – return to my dressing table.

 **(Esmeralda D10 P.O.V.)**

After a lot of deliberation over whether I should or should not join the others for lunch, I eventually skulk into the dining car. After all, dinner is more about discussing my meeting my stylist and how I'm going to present myself at the Opening Ceremonies than food anyway.

The first thing I notice when the I enter the car is that Hiccup is already there, eating what look like fish cakes with something of a grimace on his face (which leads me to assume that he may not much like fish), along with our mentors, Gobber and Nala. Gobber's dish is unfathomable, but Nala has what might be wild boar or maybe even warthog. My mouth waters just at the sight.

"Finally! Decided to turn up, did you?!" Gobber chortles. I just nod sullenly as a young, slim man in a stark-white tunic serves me a thick, purple soup dotted with strange tiny, black things, and a clear crystal glass of what I think is orange juice. I can't even guess what's in the soup, but when I ask my waiter, he just shakes his head and walks away. I give Gobber a confused look, but she just shrugs.

"Don't look at me. But don't expect an Avox to answer you either."

"Why? What's an Avox?"

"Your server was an Avox." Nala cuts in, tucking a lock of her hair, the enviable colour of darkened honey, behind one ear as she tears a hunk of meat clean from the bone.

I shake my head.

"No. I mean, I know, but what _is_ an Avox?"

Nala sighs.

"An Avox is a traitor the Capitol," She explains "They won't answer you because they can't. The Capitol cut out their tongues so they can't speak."

My eyes widen.

"That's horrible!"

"I know," Nala shrugs "But that's what the Capitol do."

"Avoxes are servants," Gobber adds, as if to add insult to injury. "You aren't to speak to them unless you're giving them an order.

"But…"

"It's really not worth arguing with him."

I start slightly at the sound of Hiccup's voice. I'd almost forgotten he was even with us; he hadn't spoken a word for the entire meal up until now. And he doesn't speak again either. When I turn to stare at him, he just plucks a buttered bread roll from the basket in the middle of the table and dunks it in the gravy on his plate, avoiding my eyes.

I gaze down at the pretty, purple liquid in my bowl, feeling sick. I can't possibly eat it, not now. Not after learning that.

Furious, I throw my chair back. It tips right over and falls with a crash. Hiccup stares at me.

"What the…"

"Sorry," I make it sound as though I'm addressing the entire room but really, my eyes are fixed on the Avox man that served me. Hopefully, he realizes that my apology runs deeper than it seems. Hopefully, he realizes that what I'm really sorry for is what's been done to. I'm sorry that he has been mutilated and forced to serve the barbaric citizens of the Capitol. I'm sorry that nothing as been done to stop this cruel practise."

Glaring, I pick up my soup and stride over to him, placing it on the silver banquet trolley he's standing in front of. "But I'm not really hungry anymore."

Then I march back to my compartment, ignoring the voices of everyone shouting for me to come back.

 **("Ping", D2 P.O.V.)**

As soon as I get back to my room, I immediately bolt the door and fling myself onto my bed, burying myself in a nest of blankets and pillows, but it's too late. The tears have already started coming.

What am I going to do?

What was I thinking trying to pull this off? Did I really think I could keep up this ruse forever? I _knew_ there'd be stylists, prep teams. Every year has Opening Ceremonies, Interviews. Did I really think I could hide who I really am from all of Panem?

Of course I didn't. I didn't think at all, did I?

What will they do to me, I wonder, when they find out? Will they kill me? Cut out my tongue and turn me into an Avox?

What about my family? Will they kill them? Imprison them? Take away everything they have and force them to live in poverty?

And what about the Games? They need a boy tribute from District 2, don't they? Will they hold another reaping? Or will they just let the Games run with one less tribute this year?

Surely they wouldn't use a Capitol child? Would they?

Do they even care as long as they get to some children die?

It's not like it really matters – only one child comes out of that arena, no matter how many go in.

My thoughts swirl, but none of them make much sense and I can't seem to sort them out long enough to ponder them, and eventually, the gentle rocking of the train manages to lull me into a fitful sleep, one plagued with nightmares of blood on the battlefield and families running screaming from their homes and the servants in white that can't speak.

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 **So that was an extra-long chapter! I don't know exactly how it got this long, but well…it did! :)** **Hope you enjoyed!**

 **The next chapter will be the Opening Ceremonies. So, questions:**

 **What will the tributes wear for the Ceremonies?**

 **How will Merida handle being mentored by her Dad?**

 **How will Jasmine deal with her growing attraction to Aladdin?**

 **How will the Capitol react to "Ping's" secret?**

 **See ya next week! :)**

 **As I always say, it is a fanfiction crime to read but not review!** **J**


	4. Tributes On Parade

**I'm back, guys! My God, I haven't updated in FOREVER! I am** _ **so**_ **sorry for the ridiculous wait! I've had an absolutely hectic week and I just haven't been able to find the time to write. I am really, really,** _ **really**_ **sorry. I'll try to get back on schedule now…**

 **This is my longest chapter to date, though (well, it has the most words according to my Word) so maybe that can make up for my disgusting lateness?**

 **Yeah, I know, it doesn't. I am SO sorry.** **It won't happen again.**

 **Review answers:**

 **ImaginationWriterStories: Thanks! And good observations. I think "Ping" basically has "his" plug for sponsors forced on "him", since there's no way "he" can hide "his" real gender from "his" stylists and prep team. Jasmine might take a little more convincing. And I agree about some of the other tributes, they really need to step up their games to compete with the likes of District 1, "Ping" and Merida for sponsors. Aurora may have a couple under her belt, though, after all that crowd-pleasing at her reaping.**

 **All Hail King Scar: I PM-ed you the answer to your question about Ping, since spoilers, but yay, I'm glad you liked the appearance from Nala! I just thought she would make a great mentor, because she gives good advice (she is the one to try to talk Simba into returning to the Pridelands, after all) but she's also tough enough to be a Victor of the Games. Glad you enjoyed this chapter!**

 **Mogyoro (Guest): Thanks! Hiccup certainly is popular, isn't he?**

 **AkwardChit: I'm so glad you're enjoying this story! Giving people something good to read really is the reason for my writing. But yeah, it is pretty hard to manage all the characters in this story, so I do apologize (to all my readers) if we don't get everyone's P.O.V. every chapter. I will try my best to make sure each District gets their due amount of screen time, though. It'll probably get easier, like you said, once the actual Games begin and people start being…disqualified, if you know what I mean.** **Hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

 **Anonymous Guest: Thanks! Interesting prediction. I think Merida is definitely one of the strongest competitors. And as for the District 4 and 11 couples: I wasn't actually** _ **planning**_ **for** _ **any**_ **of the Districts to have Disney couples, I was just putting in characters that fitted the main industry of each District (Like, District 1 is Luxury so I picked Jasmine and Kuzco because Jasmine's story revolves around wealth not being everything and Kuzco's story is about not being spoilt just because you're rich and to have compassion for others. Both of their stories revolve around wealth and lux in some form or another, so they were perfect for the Luxury District. Similarly, I chose Gogo and Jim for District 3 because their stories revolve so much around technology, Jane and The Once-ler for District 7 because they have such a strong connection with trees and so on and so forth.) For District 4 and 11, it just so happened that the only two characters I could find to fit each District were actually a couple in canon. So I didn't plan for those Districts to be the only ones to have couples as tributes, it just kind of happened that way.**

 **Thanks to all of you for sticking with this story!**

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 **(Charming, D8 P.O.V.)**

I pace obsessively up and down the remake centre, resisting the urge to rake my nails ferociously along my skin.

This is getting ridiculous.

I have been in the Remake Station for over two hours. I have been plucked and shaved and scrubbed and waxed and countless other things by my prep team, so now my skin feels raw and itchy and just generally unpleasant, but I have promised my mentor that I wouldn't argue with my team.

It's getting harder and harder to heed that promise, however, when that team have been done with me for _two hours_ and I still haven't met my stylist.

"Henry Charming?"

Speak of the devil.

I turn around to see a tall, skinny man with black hair and a monocle holding what's probably a suit, but it's covered by a thick, opaque plastic.

"Your costume."

Why do I get the feeling I'm going to hate this?

 **(Snow White, D12 P.O.V)**

We have twenty minutes until we're to get into our Chariots for the Opening Ceremony parade.

My stylist and prep team are likely to be waiting on me, but I just can't tear myself away from the huge, golden full-length mirror I'm standing in front of. It's glass reflects me wearing the most beautiful dress I've ever been within fifty meters of in my entire life, and the face gazing back at me looks not like myself, but an older, richer, more beautiful version me. A me that can afford blood-red lipstick and powder the colour of a swan's feather.

It's incredible what the Capitol can do with make-up; with just a few scraps of fabric.

My stylist has put me in a tight, sleeveless black dress that brushes the ground, and while the provocativeness of the design does make me feel mildly uncomfortable, I find it easy to look past due to the fact that the gown sparkles with hundreds of miniscule, black gems, supposedly representing coal dust. They're ingrained in the expensive material like tiny flecks of glitter, and they shimmer in the light whenever I so much as shift position. I also have a long necklace that falls to just above my naval. The gold-rimmed pendant is about the size of a two-pence coin and has a small light-bulb in the middle, so that it glows like the headlamps on a miner's helmet.

I was clearly given a fantastic stylist for this year, and for that I am grateful. District 12 tributes have been given some truly dreadful costumes in the past. All I can think is that at least my stylist isn't intent on putting me in as little clothing as possible.

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When I finally do find my way down to my waiting Chariot, I see that Pinocchio's outfit is one that mirrors mine: A back, glittering suit with glowing cufflinks. It's traditional for tributes to wear matching outfits for the Opening Ceremonies, after all.

My escort helps me into the ornate Chariot, pulled by beautiful coal-black horses, and Pinocchio climbs in beside me. Again, I try not to look at him. Because all I see is what's to come.

"Five minutes," He warns me.

Five minutes until District 1's chariot pulls out into the square the Ceremonies begin. Five minutes until we all more or less seal our fates.

After all, a bad first impression is hard to come back from.

 **(Jasmine, D1 P.O.V.)**

Two minutes to go.

I shouldn't be as nervous as I am. After all, I'm from District 1. The Career Districts are always favourites in the Games. _And_ me and Kuzco's stylists have given us fantastic costumes. I'm in a long, flowing, white gown, studded with every type of precious gem imaginable, diamonds and rubies and sapphires and emeralds. The dress trails wisps of light, transparent material that gives the illusion of me floating, and my hair has been let down and braided with white jasmine flowers. My prep team was all over that idea. Maybe they wanted to draw attention to my name so that people will remember it when I'm in the arena?

Doubtful. They probably just love the novelty of it.

Kuzco has been given a deep-red suit, also studded with gems, and is dripping with gold jewellery, including that gold headdress that he never seems to remove. We don't match, as is tradition for tributes in the Opening Ceremonies, but the contrast of the blinding white of my dress and the blood-red of his suit complement each other well. So why am I so nervous?

Oh, right. Aladdin.

My mentor is yet to see my look for the Opening Ceremonies, does not even know what I will be wearing. I, personally, adore the gown that my stylists have given me, but with he?

I wait anxiously until the opening music begins to blare from every angle, and I spot Aladdin dashing towards my chariot, looking like he's just run a marathon.

God, he's gorgeous.

His soft, dark hair falls perfectly around his head, even messed up like it is now, and the light sheen of sweat on his tanned forehead somehow manages to just enhance how, well, _hot_ he is.

"Jasmine!" I barely have time to register just how _beautiful_ my name sounds coming from his lips before he's leaping up onto the side of the chariot and holding out something large and gold in my direction. "You forgot this." He pants.

My right earring.

My eyes widen. How could I not have noticed I only had one earring in? Wordlessly, I take it from him and clip it in my ear, hoping my cheeks aren't tomato-red to match the heat spreading across my face.

"Is it straight?" I ask, hating how small and shaky my voice sounds. He nods.

Then he does something I don't expect.

He reaches up to straighten one of the jasmine flowers in my hair, his fingers brushing my scalp as he gently secures it. It takes me so much by surprise, but I barely have time to react before he has two fingers underneath my chin, lifting my head up.

Head high. No slouching. Look confident.

"Don't worry," He whispers, and I'm torn between cursing myself for letting my nerves show and loving how good his voice sounds, low and ghostly like this, his face so close to mine that his breath caresses my cheek. "They're going to love you,"

He takes my shaking hands in his warm, strong ones and gives them a squeeze.

"You look beautiful."

Then the chariot suddenly lurches forward, and in one swift leap, he's gone, waving at me until I have to turn around and face the crowd that's screaming my name.

 **(Merida, D2 P.O.V.)**

"Where _is_ he?"

I snap, my irritation and panic in full force and obvious in my voice. But really, can you blame me? It's the Opening Ceremonies, the deciding moment for tributes in the Games, and my District Partner is late. Very. District 1 have already pulled out into the square, and we should be in position to follow them, but instead, we're waiting around for Ping to just show up!

My Dad shakes his head, looking worryingly concerned himself.

"I don't know, Merida. I told Calhoun to make sure she was ready…"

"'She'? What do mean, 'she'?"

Clearly, my Dad had not meant to say that because he widens his eyes, the absolute picture of someone who's just let the cat out of the bag, so to speak.

"Merida…"

He's trying to keep his voice calm, but I can tell I've hit a nerve.

"Tell me the truth!"

"Fergus!"

Calhoun's sharp voice cuts through our unfolding argument. I whip my head around – a difficult feat in the heavy, gold helmet I'm being forced to wear – to see her running towards us, a slim Chinese girl who I don't recognize in tow.

I takes me about a minute to realize that this new girl is wearing an exact copy of my outfit.

"Where were you?!" My Dad bellows as they nears us.

"The prep team couldn't finish the damn job!" Calhoun snaps back, looking exceedingly pissed off as she grips the edge of the chariot, panting. "They were all fussing over her, and…"

I jump about a mile in the air as the chariot suddenly rocks violently. The Chinese girl has jumped in beside me. Instinctively, I spring away from her, flattening myself against the low edge of the vehicle

"Who the Hell are you?!"

The girl sighs.

"Mulan," She hold out one pale hand, obviously intending for me to shake it, but I bat it away. "I'm Fa Mulan."

 _Fa_ Mulan.

This new information (is my assumption is correct) hits me like a tonne of bricks. It shocks my brain, rendering me incapable of forming words for a good ten seconds.

I'm definitely going to need time to process this one.

"W-what happened to Ping?" I eventually manage, even though I'm pretty sure I already know the answer.

Sure enough, Mulan rolls her eyes.

"Actually, no. No, don't answer that," I shake my head in frustration, my hair flying in all directions. "Just…"

Alright, calm down Merida. Jumping to conclusions won't get you far in a survival situation. I should at least check my facts.

"You are Ping, aren't you?"

Mulan nods.

"I am, yes…"

"Why?!" My calm doesn't last long. Why?! This doesn't make sense! Why would you…"

"Merida…"

"Stop interrupting me and explain!"

"Enough chit-chatting!" Calhoun screams, shutting us both up. "You're behind already, District 1 are already miles in front!"

She strides up to one of the horses pulling our chariot and slaps its rump, stirring it into a quick trot forward. We'll be entering the square soon, and I know I should be looking straight on, towards the oncoming crowd, but I'm suddenly too angry to care. I crane my neck backwards, glaring daggers at my father, at Calhoun, at my stylists, everyone.

"Dad!" I yell, at the top of lungs, ignoring Calhoun putting her finger to her lips. "Explain now!"

"I'll explain later, Merida."

"No! Dad…"

But it's no use. The chariot is moving faster than it should. Obviously, the horses know they're behind and are trying to catch up with District 1. I see Calhoun frantically motion for me to turn around and I have no choice but to obey, staring straight ahead into the blinding lights of the Capitol and their roaring applause.

Then suddenly, everything goes silent.

 **(Mulan, D2 P.O.V.)**

The quiet is terrifying.

Not one person is clapping, cheering. I glance around and spot spectators flipping feverishly through their programs, only – I presume – to find the name "Ping" and come back no more enlightened then before. The sound of horses' hooves on cold stone is almost eerie in the utter silence.

Then it starts.

First, I hear one person – I can't see who – begin to clap.

Then another person follows.

Then another. And another. More and more until the entire square is on its feet, applauding and cheering and whistling. It's deafening and exhilarating and just plain unbelievable, but at first I'm in denial that they could possibly be clapping for me.

 _It must be for District 3_ , I think, as I can hear the clip-clop of the technology District's horses following behind us. _Or that District 1 boy._

The male District 1 tribute – I think his name might be Kuzco – is directly in front of me in his bejewelled, red suit, and is milking the attention of our captive audience for all it's worth, waving and blowing kisses and catching the flowers and gifts tossed to him, holding them up in the air triumphantly like gem-studded bouquets.

 _Yes. This must be for him._ Is my initial thought.

But then, out of nowhere, I feel something small and hard hit me in the ribs. The pain is significantly muted by the golden body armour of my costume, but I still feel it.

I glance down momentarily, forgetting for a minute that I should be keeping my gaze straight ahead, and realize that someone in the crowd has thrown a necklace to me. I pick it up and admire it. It's a fine piece of jewellery, a delicate silver chain threaded with emeralds and sapphires, and it's large enough to fit over my head without any clasps, so I quickly slip it on and, taking a cue from my fellow Career tribute, blow a kiss in some vague direction towards my left. A hundred hands reach up, grabbing at the air as if to catch it.

With a final flourish and wave, I then turn back to face forward, trying desperately not to beam like a five-year-old. But's it's so hard, and I eventually give up, because as the roar of the crowd fills my ears and our chariot becomes awash in flowers and precious gems, I can almost physically feel the pressure being lifted off my shoulders, the tension in my muscles and bones slackening.

It's okay.

They love me.

 **(Ariel, D4 P.O.V.)**

As mine and Eric's chariot speeds through the streets of the Capitol, I can't help but grin wildly, waving to the crows, tossing around my distinctive red hair and catching the flowers thrown in my direction.

I can't help it because even though I do hate being forced into these Games, even though I am still a tiny bit cross with Eric for putting us in this position that will certainly end our relationship, _even though_ I know I should be disgusted at the Capitol for parading us tributes around in a glorified beauty pageant before locking us in an arena to be slaughtered, it's neigh impossible – for me, at least – not to get caught up the genuine excitement and enthusiasm of these Capitol people, in just the pure beauty of the Opening Ceremonies, of the luxuries lavished on us all before the Games, of everything about this entire experience really.

And after all, all these Capitol people really want is a good show. Why not give it to them?

Our costumes, too, make me feel so relaxed and at home. I mean, it's traditional for costumes in the Opening Ceremonies to reflect the wearer's District, so of course it was going to remind me at least a little bit of home, but even with that in mind, I know I've struck gold with my stylist.

Eric is in a tailored yellow suit and hand, designed to look like a stereotypical fisherman's clothes, just smarter. But I have been given something much more memorable – a mermaid costume.

Well, it's close to a mermaid costume as you can get with someone on two legs. I'm wearing a tight, turquoise-green pencil skirt that clings to my legs all the way down to just above my ankles, exposing my matching flat shoes (I was originally going to wear heels, but that idea was quickly discarded when my lessons on walking in them proved to disastrous, giving me a nice big bruise on my right calf that my skirt thankfully covers.) and has a long, flowing organza train like a tail, covered with hundreds of the most eerily realistic-looking fake scales I've ever seen in my life. On top, I have a purple garment that resembles a seashell bra, with my District Token, a golden seashell necklace, added as well, "to really pull the outfit together" as my stylist said, and my hair is left loose ad flowing, cascading in an ocean of red around my shoulders and down my back.

I just know that I look more beautiful than I ever have in my entire life.

And the Capitol love me.

 **(Anna, D5 P.O.V.)**

I never knew it was possible to feel this many emotions at once.

Excitement. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Shock. Loneliness. Pride.

I feel all of that and more rolled up into one huge, strange ball. At any other time, I would be pondering it – or, more likely, in Elsa's arms for comfort – but for some reason, the general electric atmosphere of this Ceremony is getting to me and I can't help but grin from ear to ear.

I glance at Hercules. He glances at me.

It's time.

In District 5, it traditional for tributes to put on a show of their powers during the Opening Ceremonies – the costumes _are_ all about showing the primary industry of a tribute's District.

Of course, that's harder when a Normal is reaped, but their stylists always fix that by adding _fake_ powers. Which is why, minutes before the Ceremonies, I had to have a strange, white, electronic device injected into the palm of each hand that will stream fire at the click of the button on the controller my stylist is holding somewhere in the crowd. The lumps caused by the injection are covered by black, silk opera gloves but the synthetic flames will, according to my prep team, be able to penetrate the fabric. I just hope their right.

I glance down and see that Hercules is holding out his hands, cupping them like a platform, obviously waiting to hoist me up onto his shoulders.

This is a show of his God-like strength. To lift me above his head like I weigh nothing. Sponsors will be flocking to him after this performance – and maybe, just maybe, if sponsors see that I have a promising District Partner, they just might be willing to put a little faith in me, too.

Gingerly, knowing how clumsy I am prone to be, I place one foot in Hercules' hands. I give him a questioning look, asking with my eyes if what I'm doing his right. He nods and smiles, so I go to add the other foot, but I don't have time before he's lifting me up of the floor of the chariot. I have to bite back a squeal as I wobble violently and almost fall, but then I feel Hercules' arms around my waist, holding me steady, and my feet manage to get a good purchase on his broad shoulders. The crowd roars, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Okay. At least I didn't mess this one up. But now it's my turn. Granted, I don't actually have to do anything more complicated than raising my arms in the air, but I'm relying on my stylist to make it mean anything, and though I glance around I know I don't have a hope of finding him in the dense crowd.

I soon find that I don't need to worry, however, because as soon as my arms are above my head and I uncurl my palms out of their fists, I feel a warm, tickling sensation spreading through them. Like how it feels to warm your hands over a campfire. The crows erupts into thundering applause, and I risk a glance upwards. Burning, flickering flames seem to be flowing from my palms and fingertips. I sweep my hands through the air, and the fake fire moves with them. I can't help but giggle delightedly.

It shouldn't be possible to feel this alive when you're just days away from possible death.

We're nearing the City Circle now. I can see, in front of me, the huge screens and the banners and the great, stone podium reserved for President Frollo's annual pre-Games speech.

I'm actually looking forward to ringing the Circle a couple of times because it means I'll be able to get a good look at what the other tributes are wearing. At the moment, I can only see District 4 in front of me, with its boy tribute wearing a bright yellow suit and its redheaded girl tribute dressed as a mermaid, and I'm been instructed not to look behind me at District 6 because it will look unprofessional.

I really do wonder what sponsor-grabbing (or not!) costumes the other tributes have been given. What do I have to compete with? Surely no one can beat my fire?

Actually, speaking of fire, I can't help but wish I knew what Elsa Is thinking about all this.

Is she watching me right now?

Yes, of course she is. The Games are mandatory viewing for everyone, _especially_ the tributes' families.

So what does she think? I want to know. What does she think of my costume? What does she think off Hercules' little stunt? How does she feel about me becoming, if only temporarily, the magical opposite of her – a controller of fire, while she controls ice?

Is she proud of her little sister?

 **(Tiana, D6 P.O.V.)**

I don't particularly like the Circle.

Granted it's nice, with its flickering, multi-coloured lights and breath-taking decorations, but as Hook (which is what James prefers to be called, I have learned) and I loop around in our chariot, we get a good look at the gorgeous costumes of some of the other tributes, and their beauty just makes me feel jealous. It shouldn't, but it does. After all, our costumes aren't exactly the height of fashion, in the Districts or in the Capitol.

I mean, I know Transportation is a difficult industry to emulate and everything, but we're wearing headdresses with spinning helicopter blades. Is that really the best they could do?

I'm not normally a jealous person, really I'm not. I prefer to just get on with things, and if I want something badly enough I will work for it.

The only way to get what you want in this world is through hard work.

But I have had no say in things this time around, and so I am allowing myself a brief moment of wishful thinking.

Why, I sigh to myself in my head, couldn't we have been gifted a fine gown and suit, like those District 1 tributes, with their tan skin and smooth, dark hair, their clothing crafted from the most expensive fabrics money can buy, every inch of them glittering with jewels and gold? Or, if we really had to wear a more novelty piece, why not something as flattering as the District 4 pair's matching sea-themed outfits?

It really doesn't seem fair. But my attention is quickly drawn away from clothing to the two District 2 tributes, and it isn't because of their outfits – they're wearing shining, golden armour and helmets, pretty standard for District 2, nothing particularly special – but rather because, instead of the chariot holding one boy and girl tribute, there are instead two female tributes standing proud and tall inside the vehicle. One has flaming, red hair, and I recognize her from watching a recap of the other Districts' reapings, but the other is a slim, dark-haired Chinese girl, who I'm sure I've never seen before. What happened to the boy from her District? There definitely was one…

Whatever happened to him, though, this – two tributes of the same gender – has got to be a Hunger Games first. I can only imagine what President Frollo is going to have to say about this…

No. The welfare of the other tributes is not what I need to worry about right now. They are the threat, the enemy.

With a shake of my head, trying to clear the questions suddenly filling my brain, I return to analysing my competition's costumes.

It's actually a little comforting to see that the couple from District 3 seem to have had about as much luck with stylists as Hook and I have. They're wearing nothing but electrical wires, wound around their bodies, only just covering their most intimate anatomy, so while they aren't completely naked, they aren't exactly a long way away from it either.

District 7, too, seem to have attempted to copy this look (or maybe it was vice-versa?) with tree branches crawling over the tributes bare skin. It looks awful, and I almost feel sorry for both Districts, because while the District 7 girl does sort of pull it off – she has that sort of woodsy look about her that lends itself well to a costume based around trees, as well as a nice enough figure to show off – the other tributes look anything but comfortable in the costumes, and I know from my years of watching the Games that nudity almost never does anything to win favour with the Capitol audience.

District 5 is a lot better, the girl especially. Her strawberry-blonde hair is tied into her signature braids, though now that I look at her closely I can see a streak of white that stands out against her normal hair colour, and she's wearing a skin-tight, halter-neck dress with knee-high slits up both sides. It starts off black at the top, but then transforms into a pattern of flames at the bottom, matching the flames streaming from her hands.

Of course. District 5 pretty much always have powers. I say it gives them an unfair advantage in the Games, but what are you going do? They were born with them. It's not a choice.

The District 5 girl is being lifted up by her partner, a huge, muscle-bound boy with a similar hair colour. He's dressed in a long, white Grecian robe and a golden crown of leaves, as if to represent the powerful Gods of Mount Olympus. His costume isn't especially eye-catching, but it's nice all the same.

District 8 also look pretty good, in matching patchwork suits and dresses. They look the kind to be Capitol favourites, with the boy's dashing looks and the girl's gorgeous long, blonde hair and stunning violet eyes. Definitely the type to watch out for in terms of sponsors.

District 9 are dressed in suits and dresses made from tiny, golden ovals that look like shiny pieces of grain. Their hair has been cornrowed, and they're wearing huge, golden crowns. I can't help but stare for a couple of minutes, astonished that one of the couples I found the most forgettable at the reapings have suddenly been transformed into one of the most memorable ones. They certainly got good stylists.

District 10 are more showstoppers, although it's not like there was any doubt about their status as the promising underdogs of this year's Games. Not only do they seem tough and fierce and determined, but they are attractive and crowd-pleasing and their stylists are clearly working that to their advantage, dressing the girl – Esmeralda, if I remember correctly. It's one of the only names I can recall – in a pair of tight denim shorts, a low-cut plaid shirt that's been tied at the front to expose her midriff, brown cowboy boots and a matching cowboy hat, and the boy – Hiccup, is it? It's something strange – in the same boots and hat, but loose, mudded jeans and no shirt at all. Their arresting green eyes have been brought into prominence by thick, dark make-up, but their hair is pretty much untouched.

I'm sure the crowd went wild for District 10 when that chariot first stepped out into the city. They're another pair I should probably watch out for.

District 11 is next. The Native American girl tribute is wearing what the Capitol consider to be a traditional portrayal of her people, all feathers and beads and buckskins and a huge, feathered headdress that trails behind her on the floor of her chariot, her dark hair tied in two thick braids over her shoulders.

I have a feeling the outfit _might_ be racially insensitive, but if it is, no one seems to be set to say anything.

Her partner is not particularly memorable. Even his name is boring – _John Smith_ – and he's dressed in a simple pair of farmer's dungarees. He's the kind of person you forget about almost as soon as you meet them, and that really isn't good thing in the Hunger Games.

Then finally, there's District 12, a huge surprise. The twelfth District aren't exactly known for closing the pre-Games shows with a bang, but this year, their stylists have clearly outdone themselves. The girl looks absolutely beautiful in her sparkling, black dress and glowing necklace, and the little twelve-year-old boy who's her partner looks very sweet in his matching suit and cufflinks. He seems happy to be in the spotlight, too, grinning like mad and waving to the crowd. Neither of them like like particularly good fighters, but they'll likely earn some sympathetic sponsors.

Maybe District 12 could actually bring some competition this year? Who knows?

The last lap around the City Circle is coming to end. The chariots are slowing down, ordering themselves in a neat line before eventually drawing to a halt.

A fanfare begins to sound. The crows goes deathly silent as slowly, deliberately, President Frollo emerges from the shadows like a ghost and takes his place atop his podium.

President Frollo is a very old man with grey hair. He considers himself extremely religious and always dresses in long, black robes and matching hats, and his voice is dull and droning, seeming to go on and on and on forever.

I hate President Frollo's Hunger Games speech. Every year I have hated it. He just never seems to stop talking.

Honestly, I think he just likes the sound of his own voice.

"Citizens of Panem," He begins, and my heart sinks. Same old dull-as-cardboard voice, same old boring speech. "Welcome to the annual 27th Hunger Games!"

The crowd cheers and applauds, and I instantly feel sick at how excited they are for this, this slaughter of the innocent.

It's awful. It really is awful.

Sometimes I wonder if Frollo has some sort of magic in him - like the District 5 kids, except more evil - and has hypnotized all of these people into eagerly awaiting bloodshed.

"However," He continues, and my head snaps up. He's deviating from his script for the first time in my memory. What could be happening? "Before we can continue with our festivities, it appears we have a matter to address,"

What? What matter? What's happening?

Then see where Frollo's piercing, snake-like eyes are trained and I realize. The District 2 girls.

"District 2," I see the Chinese girl jump slightly, and I swear I see a little fear flash briefly in her eyes. "What a shocking turn of events," His voice is suddenly dripping with malice. I shudder. "What has happened, may I inquire, to Fa Ping, our male tribute? Whatever could have caused him to have been replaced?"

"He wasn't replaced,"

The Chinese girl's voice echoes around the silent City Circle. The crowd begins to whisper amongst themselves.

"I am him."

"Oh?" Frollo's thinning eyebrows seem to diaper into his receding hairline.

"I was disguised," the girl continues. "As a boy. My name is Fa Mulan. "

You could hear a pin drop right now.

"Oh," Frollo's eyes have narrowed to tiny, menacing slits. "How lovely…"

 **(Jane, D7 P.O.V.)**

"Hey, wait!"

I whip around from talking with Once-ler about our plans for training tomorrow to see the boy from District 3 running full-pelt towards the lift we're in, followed by his dark-haired District Partner and a brunette girl in a gold dress made entirely out of tiny oblongs, designed to look like pieces of grain. It is for this reason that I presume she must be from District 9.

"Hold the elevator!" The District 3 boy calls, and Once-ler darts forwards immediately, jamming his hands in between the lift doors, prying them open.

"Here you go!" He chirps happily as our three fellow tributes slide inside.

"You know, you could have just pressed the 'open' button."

The girl from 3 scoffs as the doors click shut again. She slams the button for Floor 3 with her fist and lift shoots upwards.

Once-ler looks sheepish.

"Oh yeah. Sorry. Didn't think of that."

The District 3 girl rolls her eyes and slumps against one of the glass walls surrounding us, chewing her gum before starting to blow a bubble with it.

Across from me, I notice that the brunette girl from 9 is glaring at her.

The girl from 3 gives her quizzical look, still blowing a gum bubble.

"He was helping us!" The girl from 9 snaps indignantly. "You could at least be grateful!"

The bubble pops.

"I was! I was just saying."

The District 9 girl doesn't reply to that and neither does anyone else, so a sort of awkward silence fills the little moving box we're all stuck in, until Once-ler finally clears his throat.

"So, uh…any of you guys have names?"

The girl from District 3 quirks an eyebrow.

"No. My birth certificate is just blank." She sneers, but a sharp look from her District Partner seems to soften her, albeit with a deep, long-suffering sigh.

"I'm _kidding_ ," She says slowly, as if we couldn't work that out for ourselves. "I'm Gogo."

The District 9 girl frowns.

"I thought your name was Ethel?"

Actually, so did I. I'm sure that was the name called at her reaping, wasn't it? Ethel Leiko Tomago. But "Gogo" makes a disgusted face.

" _Don't_ call me Ethel if you know what's good for you."

She sounds disproportionately menacing for such a mundane statement, so I just nod obediently as the lift dings and the doors spread to reveal Floor 3. Gogo and her Partner – what _is_ his name? Is it John? No, that's the boy from District 11. James? No, that's the District 6 boy. I'm sure it's something beginning with J, though – hop out. Gogo immediately slopes off without looking back, but her Partner stops and turns back one more time.

"Sorry about your costumes, by the way."

Then he gives a grimace, before turning his back to the closing lift doors. I hit the button for Floor 7 and we begin moving again.

With District 3 gone, a brief period of silence envelopes us before the girl from 9 speaks.

"I think you look nice." She says, presumably in response to the District 3 boy's comment, but I shake my head; she's just being kind and we both know it.

My costume is awful: itchy fake tree branches that wind around my body, only barely covering my bare breasts and…lower regions. Then I have a halo of branches around my forehead, but have been left barefoot, plus leaves of every type of tree imaginable tied into my hair so that I look like I've been dragged through a bush before the Games have even started. And Once-ler's costume isn't much better or any more decent.

Then again, neither for the District 3 pair's costumes, to be honest.

"I really don't. But you got a lovely outfit," I reply truthfully, gazing enviously at her meticulously-crafted, shining gold dress, her perfectly-styled hair. "Who's your stylist?"

"Wardrobe. She really likes to go crazy with all this fancy stuff." The District 9 girl smiles, running one finger along the beads of the single sleeve of her dress.

Ah yes. Wardrobe. So she's doing District 9 this year? Interesting choice.

Wardrobe (I'm pretty sure that's not her real name, but people in the Capitol often change their names to match their jobs or looks. It's always tacky and ridiculous but none of them ever seem to realize that.) is a very large women with chalky-white skin and dyed-gold hair so curly it always looks to be exploding from her head and has been a stylist in the Games for as long as I can remember – and probably long before that, as well. She's notable because while most stylists usually stick to the District they're initially given – normally one of the lower-numbered Districts – or slowly work their way up to one of the wealthier ones, Wardrobe is constantly flip-flopping back and forth, choosing seemingly at random which District she wants to work with. It's always a highlight of the Games for those in the Districts to see which District she'll be designing for, and I guess District 9 won her own personal reaping this year.

"I know," I say with a grin. "But it works. You look really good. I wish I'd gotten Wardrobe."

"Thank you." District 9 tucks an escaped lock of hair shyly back into her elaborate up-do. "I know, she is good. But she's really…"

But then the lift dings at Floor 7, cutting her off and prompting me and Once-ler to hop out of the lift.

"I'm Belle, by the way!" She calls as the doors begin to slide shut once more.

"Jane!" I shout back.

Then she presses the button for Floor 9 and my possible new friend – and maybe even a possible ally, now that I think about it – shoots away into oblivion.

 **(Merida, D2 P.O.V.)**

"You knew all along and you didn't tell me?!"

I furiously hurl a vase at the wall. It narrowly misses the side of my Dad's head and shatters into smithereens behind him. I reach for a second. He makes a grab for my arm, but I jerk it out of the way.

"Merida!"

"No, Dad! What were you thinking?! Were you ever going to tell me?!"

I'm still holding the vase, poised to throw it. My Dad sighs deeply.

"Yes Merida…"

"When?!"

"Before the Games, Merida. I was going to tell you…

"'Before the Games'?! That's all you've got?! What were you going to do, leave it till the last minute than just spring on me 'oh yeah, just thought you'd like to know, your District Partner is actually secretly a girl. Have fun with that!'?! "

"Merida…"

"You didn't think at all to maybe keep me on top of things?! To give me a chance in the Games by not confusing the hell out of me two minutes before?! _How could you not have told me_?!"

"I was trying to protect you, Merida…"

"Protect me?! What from, the truth?!"

"Yes! Merida, the Capitol…"

"Dad, STOP!"

I release the vase. It sails across the room and smashes, just like the first one.

"Merida!"

"Just leave me alone! Clearly, you're more worried about pleasing the damn Capitol that getting me out of these Games alive!"

"Merida, you know that's not true…"

Isn't it? My anger has just about reached breaking point now. I don't exactly see myself calming down.

"Just…for God's sake, just piss off!"

And I turn on my heel and storm back to my room, kicking away anything in my path and slamming the door as forcefully as my strength will allow before throwing myself on my bed.

What's going to happen now? What happens if a tribute insults their mentor, family or not? Anything?

Oh, who cares? I don't need a mentor anyway.

I can win these Games on my own.

 **(Mulan, D2 P.O.V.)**

I wince at the sound of Merida's door slamming and glance at Calhoun sitting across me at the dinner table, though she seems more or less apathetic.

"Damn. She sounds madder that bulldog that's been bitten by a butterfly," She says, biting into a chicken drumstick, and before I can wonder just how exactly she comes up with these similes, she adds "A bit like President Frollo."

My ears seem to prick up like a dog's at that.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, Frollo certainly didn't seem too pleased with your little stunt at the Opening Ceremonies, did he?"

Oh right. I should have anticipated this.

"What do you think he'll do to me?"

"Nothing until you get into the arena," Calhoun says matter-of-factly. "They still need a second tribute from District 2 and it would be a pain to replace you at this stage. He'll likely have the Gamemakers make your life hell in the arena, but until then, I doubt they'll hurt _you_."

Her emphasis on the word _you_ unnerves me.

"So will they hurt?" I demand. "My family?"

"No, I doubt they'll hurt them. The real sport of the Hunger Games is forcing families to watch their kids die, after all. I doubt they'll deny them _that_ luxury." She scoffs.

"So what will they do to them, then?"

I can hear the anger, the fear, in my voice rising. Calhoun is being so cryptic when my family's lives could be on the line! Isn't a mentor supposed to help their tribute, not hide things from them?

Calhoun shrugs.

"Nothing too bad, I shouldn't think. They might put up a few more peacekeepers than usual around your house. They might take a few low-value trinkets. They might even cut your food a bit…"

"They can't cut our food! We're barely getting by as it is!"

I feel a pang in my chest as I remember completely contradicting this. When I was disguised as Ping. When I told Merida on the train that my family were so wealthy we had a private gym. What a lie that was!

"Hold on," Calhoun holds up her hands. "I wasn't finished yet."

"Then finish!"

"What I was going to say is that the Capitol may not even do anything if you perform well in the Games. All they want is a show. If you give them that, they'll likely leave you alone."

"So basically, if I win the Games my family are safe?"

"Pretty much. Just a few particularly good fights or an especially strategic plan should appease the bloodlust, but if you win, safety is basically guaranteed."

I nod solemnly.

"So again, I need to win."

I need to win.

I don't care if Calhoun argues – which she doesn't. She wants me to win, she's my mentor, she was just spelling out the situation for me.

And that situation is that I have to win. Or least go down fighting.

But that last part doesn't matter, of course, because I'm going to win.

For my family, for my honour, for myself.

 **(Belle, D9 P.O.V.)**

I groan deeply and collapse on my bed, burying myself in the soft blankets and pillows of the most comfortable, luxurious bed I've ever been within fifty meters of in my life. My room here at the Training Centre is utterly gorgeous, but I know I won't be getting any sleep tonight, because tomorrow, is, well, training. And meeting the other tributes of course.

Honestly, I think that might be the part that scares me the most.

What will the other tributes be like? I can't help but wonder. I've already met with the pair from 7 and 3, but what about the others? What about that quite frankly terrifying boy from District 6? Or District 5's muscle man? Or the District 2 girls, who are both intimidating in almost every way?

Actually, now that I think about it, what about the Careers in general? Is there a full Career pack this year? If there is, do any of us other tributes even stand a chance?

What about training? I don't really have any particular skills. What should I try? What do I need to know? Combat? Survival skills? Does it even matter?

 _Of course it matters!_ My brain scolds me. _Training is what will give you the skills you just mentioned that you don't have!_

Okay, but what time does training even start? I'm sure someone told me a time, but for the life of me I can't remember it. Hopefully it won't be too early. I'm pretty certain that I won't feel like getting up early tomorrow.

God, I really need to get to sleep.

But my worried plague me throughout the night, never subsiding, only becoming more numerous and more intense until I'm finally in tears, sobbing into my crisp, white pillow.

It's at least 4 A.M. before I finally manage to fall into a fitful sleep. And even then, it's a bit of a stretch to call it 'sleep'.

It's really more like passing out from exhaustion.

 **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**

 **Fire!Anna is so popular. How could I possibly not use it?**

 **Also, a lot of District 2 in this chapter! I've actually never given any of the characters two P.O.V. segments in the same chapter before, but there's a first time for everything, I suppose.**

 **The next chapter will, of course, be training, but this is where I've sort of hit a hurdle. I've been thinking about splitting training up into three chapters (since the tributes train for three days), then the private sessions with the Gamemakers and training scores as another chapter, then of course the live interviews at the Capitol. But I'm a little wary of using three chapters (and therefore three weeks, if all goes well) for training as I already feel as though this story is going really slowly and running the risk of becoming boring (which is my worst fear!) due to the lack of action in a Hunger Games story. But I just don't feel like my ideas for what's going to happen during training would work as one long chapter (as I have a lot of ideas!) I don't know.**

 **It's up to you guys, really. What would you prefer? Would you want to stick around for five more chapters or would you rather get to the action quicker? I'd love to know your opinion!**

 **See ya next week (hopefully!)**

 **As I always say, it is a fanfiction crime to read but not review!**


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